The Brain and the Heart
by Striders-Girl89
Summary: Follows John Watson as he and Sherlock Holmes are pushed to new limits with new twist and turns that will shock. Set before events of The Reichenbach Falls. There will be some violence and blood, especially in later episodes.
1. Episode 1, Chapter 1

_**Author's Note: Hello everyone, sorry I have been not very active the past couple of months, everything seems to have just gone wrong lately. Anyway, you don't want to hear about that... This is my new fanfiction based on S. Moffat and M. Gatiss's amazing tv series Sherlock. Of course, I do not own the characters or anything like that. I am just, like so many others, obsessed with the show (and Benedict Cumberbatch in all his beautifulness). This will be a running series for me, a bit like my Doctor Who episodes, although maybe not as many.  
**_  
_**I am a big fan of the origional stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, so if you have read those stories yourself, expect to see a few references to them. Well, there will probably be a fair few of those... It is also my plan to stick as closely as possible to the show, ie. the structure, the character relationships, and the storylines themselves. I like what has been going on, so I am not going to change one bit of it. My episodes I have made up myself, just sometimes I may be inspired by the real stories in the books.**_

_**Now, this episode is the first in about six I think, I have only currently written two full episodes and I have just started on this one, which is set a few weeks after A Scandal in Belgravia. I think that was all I needed to say... **_

_**Oh well, enjoy and please tell me what you think!**_

* * *

I walked up the stairs of my shared Baker Street flat, carrying several bags of grocery shopping, and into the kitchen, going through the doorway in the hall.

"Don't worry, I can manage," I said to myself as I dumped all the bags on the floor beside the small kitchen table. I had planned to place them _on_ the table itself, but it was covered in my flatmate's science equipment. I looked around the kitchen in despair, quickly discovering that the kitchen table was not the only thing covered in science equipment, it was the whole kitchen. Hating to think of what state the inside of the fridge would be like; I shook my head and walked out into the sitting room.

"You know Sherlock, you could always clean up after your -" I stopped short as my eyes fell on the world's only Consulting Detective, Sherlock Holmes. "What on earth are you doing?"

He was lying upside-down on the three-seater sofa, his bare feet resting on the wall underneath the yellow smiley-face that he had spray-painted there after the "_Blind Banker_" affair, with a thick chemistry textbook in his hands in front of his face.

"Reading," Sherlock answered me slowly.

"And is there any particular reason why you are upside down?" I asked with a confused frown.

"I thought it might make it more interesting." He answered seriously.

"Right," I said slowly, still frowning. "Did it?"

"No," he sighed before throwing the heavy, thick textbook off at an odd angle halfway across the room melodramatically then gazing up to me. "I'm bored."

"I would never have guessed, Sherlock." I said sarcastically.

He repositioned himself so that he was sitting on the sofa like a normal, civilised human being and he gazed at me silently for a few moments.

"What?" I asked, automatically suspicious of him.

"You were chatting up that sales assistant at Tesco's again, weren't you?" he said, rolling his eyes.

"What – no – Sherlock," I complained and I saw him smile smugly as I walked back into the kitchen to put the groceries away in a huff. So I may have talked to the woman who served me, but that didn't mean that I had been chatting her up. Sure she was a tall, fit blonde, who could actually string a few decent words together, but that was beside the point; I had not been flirting.

"You always flirt with people whom you barely know John." Sherlock called to me and I could hear the amusement in his deep voice.

"I do not," I said angrily, throwing a packet of fresh pasta into the nearest cupboard rather forcefully. "And anyway, if I _did_ happen to flirt with complete strangers, it's only because they haven't met _you_ yet, so my chances haven't been completely ruined!"

I paused, thinking over what I had just said and I groaned. "My God, what has my life come to?" I muttered horrified.

"Don't be so dramatic," Sherlock said dully. "All women seem to do is cause trouble."

"You can't judge an entire sex on Irene Adler, Sherlock." I told him, wondering if bringing up _the_ woman was such a good idea as I walked back out into the sitting room.

"I'm not," Sherlock said. "Look at that doctor lady you dated, what was her name…"

"Sarah," I answered, wondering where this was going. "What about her?"

"We had to _rescue_ her –"

"No Sherlock," I said sternly, "You sent us to that _travelling circus _on a bloody date and got the two of us dragged into it. If that Shan woman didn't think I was you, none of that would have happened!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes again and opened his mouth to say something else, but the doorbell rang, distracting him from our conversation.

"MRS HUDSON!" he yelled loud enough that I thought half the street would have heard him.

"I am _not_ your housekeeper, Sherlock Holmes," called Mrs Hudson from the hallway downstairs before we both heard the front door open, Sherlock grinning.

"Who would have thought that a few weeks ago you threw a man out of a window for her?" I said, shaking my head disbelievingly.

"That's different," he admitted indifferently.

"Of course it is," I sighed as I sunk into my warm chair beside the fire.

Moments later, we heard footsteps on the stairs before there came a quiet knock at the doorway. I looked around to find a young woman, perhaps in her late twenties with brown eyes and short brown hair, looking particularly dishevelled.

"Sorry for the intrusion, but you Mr Holmes," the woman said hurriedly with a fair bit of colour on her pale face, glancing to Sherlock. "You have been recommended to me by a – ah, friend – who reads Dr. Watson's blog. I hope this isn't a bad time?"

"Not at all, come in." said Sherlock with a small eager smile as he watched our new guest with interest. He stood and indicated for her to sit down on the sofa. "You seem to have been through a lot in the past few days, what is it that has brought you to us?"

I shot Sherlock a quick frown, wondering how he was managing act so civil.

"Oh, but don't be dull," he added, taking his seat beside mine and I gave a slight nod. _That's more like it_, I thought. "And get to the point, quite quickly."

I shook my head, wondering how we had managed to get any cases at all when this was how he treated out potential clients. "Don't feel as though you need to rush, Miss –"

"Imogen Flynn," she told me, relaxing a bit as she gazed to me. "Sorry, I should've introduced myself sooner… my head is all over the place at the moment, I'd probably lose it if it wasn't attached."

She gave a nervous laugh and I smiled slightly.

"Obviously, seeing as your jumper is on inside out and you've only got one sock on." Sherlock said to her as she looked down to examine herself.

"Sherlock," I reprimanded, but he, like always, needed to show off.

"That in itself indicates that you live alone with no one to tell you that it wasn't right and your sock indicates that you were in a hurry to get here and you are not up to date with your washing." Sherlock continued and I covered my eyes with my hand. "I can also tell that you arrived here by cab, not by the tube because if you had of travelled by the underground you would have been told by one of the numerous people you were jammed up against about the state of your jumper." He finished smugly and the woman just stared at him.

"That – uh – pretty much sums up my life at the moment, yeah." She said eventually, her eyes suddenly glassy. "I wonder Mr Holmes, if you have heard of the attack that occurred a few streets away?"

"The one on the elderly man?" I asked, frowning as I tried to remember it.

"Yes, the man's son-in-law was arrested." Sherlock said promptly, staring at the woman closely.

"The victim of the attack was my father, Mr Holmes," Imogen said, her hands beginning to shake slightly. "The main reason why I am so rushed is because I am spending so much time at the hospital with my dying father and when I'm not there with him I am over at Scotland Yard's holding cells visiting my innocent fiancé."

"Innocent?" repeated Sherlock with a small disbelieving smile on his lips. "He can't be that innocent if he has been arrested by the police."

"The only reason he was arrested was on the bases that he was seen arguing with my father earlier that afternoon," Imogen said hotly, glaring at Sherlock, "and that has only held up this long because my father's landlady gave an eye witness account."

"There has to be something more substantial than that," I pointed out calmly. "Scotland Yard don't just arrest and hold people just on something like that."

"Then what are they holding him for?" she asked me, her thin eyebrows raised. "They haven't shown him any evidence that links him to my father's rooms; they just keep harping on about the apparent argument."

I looked to Sherlock, whose eyes had narrowed.

"What is it that you want of us then?" he asked quietly, and I could tell that he already knew.

"I would like you to help my fiancé," she said, equally as quiet as Sherlock had spoken. "I know he hasn't done this, he could never hurt anyone, let alone my father who he has known for nearly fifteen years."

"If what you say is true and your fiancé did not attack your father, then he has absolutely nothing to worry about." Sherlock said sounding slightly bored again now. "This case will never reach the courts with such an apparent lack of evidence."

"Yes, but when my fiancé is finally released, what happens then?" Imogen asked Sherlock with wide, uncertain eyes. "What if they get some other poor bloke who didn't do it, or worse, if they don't catch anyone at all? The detectives at Scotland Yard haven't exactly filled me with much confidence."

"They never do," Sherlock said with a familiar glint in his eyes now and I knew that with her last sentence, Imogen had managed to convince Sherlock to take her case. "Tell me all the details, no matter how trivial you might think them to be."

"You'll take the case?" she asked giving Sherlock a warm, relieved smile.

Sherlock gave a curt nod before leaning back in his chair and I took out my small notebook and pen from my jacket pocket.

"Do you carry that everywhere?" Sherlock asked me quietly and I looked to him.

"Yeah," I answered quietly. "I never know when I might need it when I am around you."

"How tedious." He said.

"Yeah, well, not everyone has a super-human mind _palace_ like you, do they?" I added, earning a small crooked smile from him.

"Please go on, Miss Flynn." Sherlock said, closing his eyes and resting his hand on the chair. "But please leave out any form of speculation."

Imogen nodded and took a deep breath. "Four days ago, my father, Caleb Flynn was attacked in his home in Chagford Street – number 39, right down the end. He was stabbed – I'm not sure how many times, but it was enough to leave him in a critical condition in the London Hospital. Whoever did it left him to die in his very own sitting room."

"You found him?" Sherlock asked with his eyes still closed.

"He had managed to dial my number on his mobile phone, and when he didn't answer me I rushed right around, had an argument with the landlady before finally reaching him in the sitting room unconscious and half his blood all over the apartment."

"Why did you argue with the landlady?" Sherlock asked sharply.

"She wouldn't let me in the front door, but then that isn't unusual." Imogen told him somewhat dismissively. "She is an older lady, not all there upstairs if you know what I mean, but she's harmless enough, just very old fashioned and didn't like anyone coming to visit around Five-thirty because that was normally when she ate her dinner."

"But she wasn't eating dinner that night?" Sherlock assumed.

"No, that might have been why she was in such a foul mood. Anyway, I walked up the stairs and let myself into dad's apartment and called 999. Next thing I know, Declan, my fiancé, calls me just as we arrive at emergency telling me that he'd been arrested for attacking dad."

"Did he tell you that he was going to see your father that afternoon?" I asked slowly, still managing to write as much detail as I could down in my notebook.

"Declan was going to drop in on dad to help him fix a leaky shower fixture in his bathroom before he went to work." Imogen answered before adding in afterthought, "He works in night shift as a nurse at London hospital in emergency."

"Note that down, John." Sherlock said quietly to me and I nodded, having already noted that fact down. "And they have both always gotten along?"

Imogen nodded. "Always; Declan being from Ireland doesn't get to spend much time with his own father, so he spent a lot of time with mine. They are like best friends; Declan couldn't have done something like this."

"What time did he arrive at your father's?" I pondered.

"He left our house in Paddington at about three-thirty that afternoon to catch the underground, so he should have been at Dad's here around four. He called me at twenty to five to say he was on his way to work."

"He could have doubled back –"

"That's what the police seem to think, Dr. Watson." Imogen said hotly to me.

"In your mind, there is no possible motive for your future husband to try and kill your father?" Sherlock asked his eyes wide open again and now staring at our guest quite intently. "There were no money issues, no scandals that your father might have been concealing from you that your fiancé may have discovered during his visit?"

Imogen shook her head adamantly.

"He led a quiet, retired life Mr Holmes," she said. "Declan and I were all he had left."

"His life insurance payout wouldn't have benefited you and Declan, or anyone else? Did he have enemies that you knew of?" Sherlock pressed.

"No one has enemies except for you, Sherlock." I muttered darkly to myself, and earned a glare from him.

"His life insurance only covers the expenses that his death would cause, and he certainly had no enemies."

"What about his landlady?"

"They got along fine as far as I'm aware." She told him and he fell into a thoughtful silence.

"Well, I think that is all I need from you for now," Sherlock said eventually and Imogen and I stood up, thinking that Sherlock's consultation had just come to an end. "Oh, and who was the friend who _recommended_ me?" he asked with a mischievous glint in his eye.

"Uh, it was Stanley Hopkins." She said awkwardly and I gave a start.

"As in Detective Inspector Stanley Hopkins of Scotland Yard?" I asked her.

"The one and only," Sherlock said happily, bounding up out of his chair to shake Imogen Flynn by the hand. "Thank you for bringing a case like this to my attention, and I shall be very surprised if I don't have some good news for you by this very evening, goodbye."

Without giving the poor woman a chance to say anything at all, Sherlock had pushed her out into the hallway and closed the door in her startled face.

"Sherlock," I complained as Sherlock began pacing around the room, rubbing his hands together with a massive grin on his gleeful face. Obviously he felt that this case had more potential than I had realised yet. "What are you so happy about?"

"Hopkins', John!" he cried with pleasure and I frowned in confusion. "Hopkins is out of his league as per usual and has enlisted my help."

"Oi, he looks up to you, don't ruin it." I reprimanded him again. "He always takes in every word you say and applies it on each of his cases –"

"He'll go far, I am sure." Sherlock said seriously as he walked into the kitchen, then into his bedroom. He emerged five minutes later, fully dressed (including his blue scarf) looking excited.

"Where are we headed first then?" I asked curiously, still feeling a bit lost about the whole situation.

"We need to visit the fiancé and get our facts established about the victim's wounds, which in itself is essential to prove or incriminate him." Sherlock told me as we walked down the stairs together. "I would have preferred to visit the scene of crime first, but there is something funny about the landlady – something that doesn't sit right."

"You hardly know anything about her," I gaped as we walked out onto Baker Street and I closed the door behind me.

"Mmm, and I already suspect her. Doesn't that say _something_ of her character, John?" Sherlock asked me seriously before he hailed a cab and I had to admit that Sherlock Holmes was very rarely wrong.


	2. Episode 1, Chapter 2

_**Author's note: I should have probably mentioned in the last chapter that this episode is called The Case of the Invisible Man. Yeah.**_

_**Also, I am in need of ideas for good crimes. If you have any, let me know and I might just use it for a story. Oh, I will give you credit for the idea too, I'm not going to just steal it from you. I'm not that evil!**_

* * *

**The Case of the Invisible Man, Chapter Two: Interviewing the Innocent**

Sherlock and I arrived at Scotland Yard at about lunchtime, finding Detective Inspector Stanley Hopkins at his desk at the opposite end of the room to where his rival and fellow workmate Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade worked. Hopkins was sitting surrounded by piles of case files and loose papers and had a particularly stressed demeanour about him.

"Ah," said the young detective, glancing up and finding us standing before him. "Mr Holmes, Dr. Watson, miss Flynn obviously took my advice then?"

"And why exactly would you be advising the fiancée of your chief suspect to come and see me?" asked Sherlock with a familiar air of arrogance that he usually got when he was amused with other people's misfortune.

Hopkins' gave a tired sigh. "I know you don't have much faith in us here, Holmes, but we are doing the best we can with what we currently have."

"No you're not," Sherlock stated bluntly. "If you were doing that you wouldn't have Declan Braxton in custody, would you?"

"You haven't even seen him yet!" Hopkins complained with a deep frown.

"I've spoken to the fiancée," Sherlock told him lightly. "She seems convinced of his innocence."

"Since when do you believe a suspect's partner?" I asked him, genuinely taken aback.

"I don't, but that's not the point, John." Sherlock said dismissively. "Yet again you've missed the obvious."

"Of course I have Sherlock," I sighed, hating the way he acted when the rest of the normal people hadn't caught up to him yet.

"Do you want to read the case file?" Hopkins asked, reaching for one of the many folders on his desk.

"The only thing I need to see right now is a picture and details of the victim's wounds." Sherlock said in superior tones, holding out his hand expectantly until Hopkins eventually placed a photograph and some sheets of paper into it. He glanced to them with a frown before handing the photograph over to me.

The man in the photograph was hooked up to all the usual medical equipment that you would expect to see when a patient is fighting for their life. He had silver-grey hair and multiple – six to be exact – stab wounds to the chest that had all been stapled back up. From the positioning of the wounds, I gathered the attack to be a frenzied one rather than being strategically thought through.

"Jesus," I muttered. "He is lucky that the person who did this to him didn't hit any vital organs."

"Oh good, you've caught up," Sherlock said sounding slightly relieved but I looked to him blankly.

"Ah, no I haven't." I admitted slowly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and gave a small sigh. "What was it that Declan Braxton does for a living, John?"

"He's a nurse at the London Hospital," I said nodding, now realising where Sherlock was coming from now. "You think that Braxton should have known where to stab the victim in order to cause death?"

"I know he should and so do you," he said to me sternly. "How could attacking the victim in this fashion do him any good? Chances are that the victim will survive and be able to identify the person who has done this to him."

"Knowledge of vital organs sometimes goes out the window in situations like this, Sherlock. "I reminded him. "Not everyone can handle actually stabbing someone."

"That - like the wounds would suggest - would imply a frenzied attack." Sherlock said back to me. "Now what could possibly provoke Braxton to a man with whom he has known for years? What could he possibly gain from this apart from gaol time, no wedding and a new reputation that will follow him for the rest of his life? There is no motive here!"

"Why do you think I recommended you?" Hopkins said seriously. "This case – well, I can make neither heads nor tails of it. The suspect is adamant that he didn't have an argument with the victim, yet the landlady – a Mrs Addison – is insistent that she saw the pair of them arguing quite loudly on the staircase in the house."

"Yes, well I am going to want to speak with her after we are finished with Braxton, as well as going of the scene for myself."

Hopkins nodded. "Come this way then,"

He led us silently through Scotland Yard and down to the holding cells and we made our way through the multiple security checkpoints before finally reaching the dark and cold corridor of holding cells. We walked halfway down this corridor, the cells inhabitants all yelling very flavoursome things out to us, until we reached cell number twenty-four and the supervising sergeant unlocked the door for us so we could go in.

The cell's sole occupant was a fairly tall man, maybe five foot nine inches, early thirties with sandy blond hair. When Sherlock and I followed Hopkins in and the cell door shut loudly behind us, he stood and looked to Hopkins alarmed.

"Should I be asking for a lawyer?" Declan Braxton asked in a thick Irish accent.

"Don't be boring," Sherlock sighed, sounding disappointed.

"Sherlock," I muttered, receiving an annoyed glare from him.

"Sherlock Holmes?" the tired looking man asked, relief flooding his pale face. "Imogen went to see you then?"

"She came and saw us this morning," I told him and his gaze turned now to me. "John Watson," I added, holding out my hand to shake his.

"I know," Braxton nodded. "Detective Inspector Hopkins has told me all about you both and what it is that you do. Have you found out who really attacked Caleb yet?"

"I already have a fair idea who the person is, yes." Sherlock said, pausing to allow Hopkins and myself to look to him sharply, a small, smug smile briefly playing on his lips before he continued. "But I still need decent evidence to support my theories."

"Hopkins said that you were good," Braxton laughed honestly and I noticed that Sherlock looked over to the DI raising his eyebrows in a slightly conceited manner.

"Why don't you tell them everything that you've told me Mr Braxton," Hopkins urged uncomfortably, making Sherlock smirk as I quickly retrieved my notepad and pen from my jacket pocket.

"Save no details," Sherlock instructed. "Nothing is irrelevant!"

Braxton nodded and quickly gathered his thoughts. "I woke up on Friday afternoon at about one-thirty –"

"You work the nightshift at the London Hospital?" Sherlock enquired.

"Yeah," Braxton nodded. "Imogen gets Friday's off so we just spent most of the afternoon chilling on the sofa, watching TV. Caleb – Imogen's dad – called her at about two-thirty to ask if I could go around to his place to fix the shower head in the bathroom and I said that I would call in on my way to work. I left home to catch the underground from Paddington Station at quarter-past three. I didn't pay much attention to when I actually got on the train or anything like that, and I didn't even notice what time I arrived at Baker Street, but I know for certain that I got to Caleb's flat by four."

"Must have been a fairly good run on the Tube then," I said to him.

"Yeah, that's how I knew for certain that it was four o'clock because I double checked Caleb's clock." Braxton said to me.

"And what happened once you arrived at your fiancée's father's place?" Sherlock asked with hints of impatientness in his voice due to our little side-note.

"The front door was locked, which wasn't surprising, so I had to buzz the intercom to ask the landlady if she could let me in."

"And she let you in with no hesitation?" Sherlock pressed, frowning in concentration.

"She let me in straight away." He said. "But she did sound a bit distracted. I asked her if she was alright but she said I had just waked her up from her afternoon nap, so I just went upstairs to knock on Caleb's door."

"Did you notice if the woman's television was on?" Sherlock asked seriously and I frowned, not able to see the relevance, while Braxton thought it over before eventually nodding.

"Yeah, I think it was," he said vaguely. "I remember hearing one of those awful commercials for health insurance that everyone has been plugging recently and Mrs Addison is the only person living downstairs at the moment."

Sherlock nodded. "Continue,"

"So, Caleb let me in and I fixed his leaking shower head – it wasn't really broken, it just needed a quick tightening but I don't think he could have reached it with his back giving him grief all the time." Braxton went on to explain. "I had a quick cup of tea with him after that before leaving him at twenty to five and calling Imogen to let her know all was well and that I was on my way to work."

"You checked the phone records?" Sherlock asked Hopkins, who nodded. "What time did you arrive at Baker Street Station?"

"About five to five," he said. "And I was on the train by five past."

"Do you use an oyster card?" I asked, thinking that it would be easy enough to check his whereabouts with that.

"I do, but that day I accidently left it at home so I had to buy a normal ticket," he said to me and I could tell that he regretted it.

"CCTV footage?" asked Sherlock, glancing at Hopkins.

"I have people going through the footage now to locate him on the tapes." Hopkins answered him and Sherlock nodded, looking back to Braxton.

"Now, how many years did you study to get to where you are now in nursing?" Sherlock asked lightly.

Braxton looked to him startled. "Three,"

"And if you were going to stab someone with the intent to kill them, where would _you_ aim for?"

"Sherlock," I protested loudly.

"Please give me an honest answer, Mr Braxton." Sherlock pressed, ignoring me.

"I – I don't know," he stammered. "I haven't ever thought about it."

"Well, think about it now, using your knowledge of the delicate nature of the human body and imagining that your victim is more muscular than you are and has begun to fight back. Where would you aim to stop him for good?"

"I don't – probably the throat," Braxton said, his voice shaking violently. "Or maybe his lower abdomen – look, I don't know, I could never actually do it!"

"I know you wouldn't, I just had to prove a point." Sherlock said calmly and I shook my head disapprovingly as the poor man sunk weakly down to the bed. "Just one last thing before we go though did you actually have an argument with your fiancée's father?"

"No," he answered, looking up to Sherlock, his face pale.

"And the landlady, Mrs Addison, she doesn't bare a grudge against you?"

"I have no idea why she would say that she saw me and Caleb arguing. I mean, we were only together inside his flat and he didn't walk downstairs with me when I left. He always avoided using the stairs unless he absolutely had to, because he was getting on in years now and his knees weren't what they used to be. Plus, his back was aching from helping Mrs Addison rearrange the attic last week. In all honesty, he was considering moving out to a place with no stairs."

"Interesting," Sherlock mumbled. "Well Mr Braxton, I would imagine that you should be out of here by this afternoon."

"Really?" he asked eagerly.

"They have no reason to keep holding you, why do you think they called me in?" Sherlock smiled as he knocked on the cell door to be let out, Hopkins looking across to him darkly. "Goodbye!"


	3. Episode 1 Chapter 3

_******The Case of the Invisible Man, Chapter Three: Tea and Biscuits**_

Sherlock and I got out of Hopkins unmarked police car and looked to the four-storey house that we had parked in front of that was only a few streets away from Baker Street. I glanced down the narrow one-way street, noting how quiet it was and also how many CCTV cameras there were on the other side of the street that covered the multiple blocks of apartments.

"Did you check the CCTV cameras?" I asked, looking across to Hopkins.

"Yeah, those ones on the other side of the street only really cover those buildings. The camera up there -" he said, pointing a few meters away from us to a single camera up on the side of the building at the end of the street. "- covers this house and we have the suspect arriving and leaving at the times indicated by him."

"How is he still a suspect then?" I asked incredulously, looking to the Detective Inspector in disbelief.

"An eyewitness has placed him having an argument with the victim just moments before he left the house –"

"An argument that I am about to prove never happened," Sherlock said quietly. "Oh, and I am going to need copies of the CCTV footage too. I am certain that the real person responsible for the attack will be on it."

"How can you be so sure?" I asked, not because I didn't trust his judgement but because I genuinely wanted to know how he had reached his conclusion.

Sherlock didn't answer me so I looked back to the brown bricked, white windowed house that had two small gardens either side of the front door that could only be accessed from the inside due to the tall, sharp, wrought-iron fencing.

Hopkins rang the doorbell and a few moments later an elderly woman with the expected white-grey hair appeared, her eyes widening at the sight of three men standing in her doorway.

"Can I help you?" she asked nervously, glancing over her shoulder behind her.

"Mrs Addison, it's Detective Inspector Stanley Hopkins from Scotland Yard again," Hopkins said gently, showing his warrant card before the old woman's eyes glanced to Sherlock and I. "And this is Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson, they're helping me in my investigations, may we come in?"

Mrs Addison opened the front door fully and stood back in order to let the three of us into the hallway and I noticed Sherlock's eyes darting around the now cramped room.

"Why have you come back again?" Mrs Addison asked watching Sherlock unsteadily as he strode around glancing at paintings and photographs that lined the grey walls. "I thought you had arrested Declan?"

"We just need to have another look in your tenant's rooms and ask you some follow up questions, if that is alright?" Hopkins said with a smile.

"Of course," Mrs Addison said, closing the front door again before leading us into a small sitting room off the main hallway to the right of the front door. I took in the room fairly quickly, noting almost at once the horrible floral wallpaper that covered every inch of the walls.

"Should I make a pot of tea?" Mrs Addison asked Hopkins and Sherlock quickly shook his head.

"Uh, no Mrs Addison, that should be fine," Hopkins said. "We don't want to take up too much of your time."

"Oh, I don't mind," Mrs Addison smiled. "I'll go and make some tea, I enjoy the company."

Sherlock quickly made to stop her but I shook my head.

"Leave it," I said quietly.

"But –"

"Trust me; it will work as an advantage." I said, taking a seat on the plastic covered sofa, Sherlock joining me with a confused frown. A few moments later, Mrs Addison returned with a tray of biscuits, a steaming teapot and four teacups, a warm smile on her face.

"Ah," Sherlock said quietly to me with a small smile and I tried to hide my own. "You are too kind Mrs Addison." He said gently and the elder woman smiled at him.

"It's my pleasure Mr Holmes,"

"Please, call me Sherlock," he told her charmingly as he took one of the cups of tea from her.

"That's an unusual name, does it mean anything special?" she asked curiously, taking a seat on the chair opposite us.

"I'm not sure," he smiled as Hopkins and I exchanged a quick smirk.

"Well, it's nice to have something a bit different anyway, you should thank your parents for that!" she said as she handed Hopkins and I a cup of tea now too. "Now, you said you had some more questions for me Detective Inspector?"

"Well, it's actually Mr Holmes who has a few questions for you ma'am." Hopkins said, after taking a swig of his tea and Mrs Addison looked back to Sherlock with a small smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

"I don't think I can be of much help I'm afraid," she told him and I noticed her hands twisting somewhat nervously in her lap.

"Nonsense," Sherlock said in mock-disbelief. "I am sure you will be of great assistance."

I watched as Mrs Addison's face relaxed as she gazed warmly across to Sherlock, and shaking my head slightly I thought that Sherlock had a gift of being able to put people at ease when he really wanted to.

"I was wondering if you could tell me what happened on the day that Mr Caleb Flynn was attacked." Sherlock asked her calmly.

"I have already told Detective Inspector Hopkins though," she said looking confused as she tensed up again.

"I know, and I am very sorry to have to ask you again, but I find reading other people's reports so impersonal," said Sherlock casually. "I like to talk to all of the witnesses so they know that what they have to say really does matter to us."

Mrs Addison absolutely beamed at Sherlock, whom I noticed was doing a very good job at avoiding my gaze, which was probably a good thing.

"I understand," Mrs Addison said before she seemed to gather her thoughts. "On the day that poor Caleb was attacked… well, nothing out of the ordinary happened. No visitors called except for young Declan."

"And did you notice anything different about him, anything that might have hinted at what he was about to do?" Sherlock asked her and both Hopkins and I looked to him sharply.

"Uh, no – not really," said Mrs Addison after a moment's hesitation. "I only let him in so he could go upstairs. If only I had of known what he was going to do… poor Caleb… I wish I had never opened the door and let him in!" she added, her voice shaking violently with guilt and she covered her face in her hands.

Sherlock gave me a sudden nudge and I looked to him as he jerked his head in the old lady's direction. I gave him a frown, still not understanding what angle he was going with. He gave me an exasperated look before rolling his eyes and getting up to go and sit beside Mrs Addison on the sofa opposite me.

"Now, don't go blaming yourself, Mrs Addison, you weren't to know what Declan Braxton was coming to do, did you?" Sherlock said, placing a supportive arm around her, but I could tell he wasn't entirely with the gesture. Hopkins looked enquiringly to me and I shrugged, not knowing why he was blaming a man whom we both knew Sherlock thought to be entirely innocent.

"No," Mrs Addison said, sounding very upset now. "He was always such a good boy, is it possible that all of this was just some terrible accident?" she added hopefully.

Sherlock looked over to me, raising his eyebrows in a way which seemed to be an invitation to help him out.

"It wasn't an accident." I told Mrs Addison slowly.

"How can you be so certain?" she asked me with wide, terrified eyes.

"The stab wounds on Mr Flynn indicate that there were no signs of hesitation and the sheer number of wounds says that the person who attacked Mr Flynn could have stopped at any time, but he didn't." I told her calmly.

I watched as she took in this new information and I wasn't sure if she was just genuinely shocked at the goings on, or something else was triggering her emotions, but I had finally caught on to why Sherlock had told her that Declan Braxton had been the person who had attacked Caleb Flynn; it was to see if she was being completely truthful with us or not.

"You said that you saw Braxton arguing with Caleb," Sherlock continued gently, but his eyes were bright and fixed upon the older woman's face. "Where were they arguing?"

"There were on the staircase," Mrs Addison said quietly.

"And did you hear what they were arguing about?" Sherlock pressed, slightly less gentle now.

Mrs Addison hesitated again. "I couldn't be sure… it might have been about – about money." She said quickly like someone who was making up a story.

"Money?" asked Hopkins with a frown, and I felt that he was thinking along the same lines as I was.

"Or – or perhaps it was Imogen, Caleb's daughter." She added hastily at Hopkins' interjection. "I – I don't know, I wanted to stay out of it, it was none of my business."

"Did you see them on the stairs or did you only hear them?" Sherlock asked.

"I – I saw them." She said, looking fearfully to Sherlock, who surprisingly still had his arm around the upset woman.

"Were they walking downstairs together?" he asked, Mrs Addison nodding in answer, making me look across to Hopkins. According to what Declan Braxton had told us earlier, Caleb Flynn had remained upstairs in his flat.

"Were they leaving together, Mrs Addison?" Hopkins asked sharply.

"I don't know," she answered, sounding very upset now.

"And nor could you know something like that," Sherlock said, pretending to sound reproachful towards Hopkins but he gave us both a look to tell us not to take him too seriously.

"I'm sorry, but I don't know anything more about it," she said emotionally, her small frame shaking.

"You've been very helpful and exceptionally brave, Mrs Addison," Sherlock told her as he gave her shoulders a quick, tight squeeze. "John, pour some tea for Mrs Addison."

I did as I was told, watching Mrs Addison closely as she wiped her eyes with a handkerchief that she had pulled from her sleeve.

"You are much too kind, Sherlock." She said eventually, giving him a small smile.

"Not at all," he said, smiling somewhat bashfully. "You have been through a traumatic time."

She smiled again before picking up the plate of biscuits and offering one to Sherlock before she offered one to Hopkins and me.

"Mmm," Sherlock said, taking a bite of his biscuit. "Did you just make these, they are delicious!"

"I made them just before you arrived," she smiled approvingly at him.

"Oh," Sherlock said, looking alarmed now. "Are you expecting visitors?"

Mrs Addison was about to answer him with a nod, but she suddenly caught herself. "No," she said after a deliberate pause. "I just like to bake in case I get some visitors."

"Surely you would have your family visiting you frequently." Sherlock said in a charming manner once more and I noticed Hopkins roll his eyes in annoyance.

"Not as often as a grandmother would like," she told him sadly. "But grandchildren would rather be out with their friends than sitting and drinking tea with us old things." She gave another pause, looking away from Sherlock sadly before continuing in what was barely a whisper. "And then they only call on you when everything goes wrong…"

"They don't know what they're missing." Sherlock told her, taking another bite of his biscuit and I could hear the honesty in his voice and see the genuineness in the small smile that he gave her.

Mrs Addison beamed at Sherlock, who I could tell had suddenly become uncomfortable. He placed his tea cup down on the coffee table before he stood up.

"Now, would you mind if Dr. Watson and I had a quick look upstairs?" Sherlock asked her.

"That's fine, Detective Inspector Hopkins has Caleb's key," Mrs Addison told Sherlock, who held out his hand expectantly and Hopkins placed a set of keys in them.

"Stay here," Sherlock told Hopkins, who nodded in understanding.

I stood up and followed Sherlock to the door. He stopped and looked back to the elderly woman.

"Oh, one more thing, Mrs Addison," he said politely. "What were you doing when Declan Braxton called you over the intercom to let him into the building?"

Mrs Addison frowned as she tried to remember and I watched her closely again, seeing as I knew what she had told Declan when she opened the door.

"I had been watching a documentary on the Queen," she said honestly.

"You didn't fall asleep at all?" Sherlock pressed as Hopkins looked up to him and I thought he had finally worked out what Sherlock had been doing the whole time.

"No, I can never fall asleep while the television is on," she answered.

"Me neither," Sherlock smiled. "Excuse us for a moment."

We both walked out into the hall and when I closed the door behind me Sherlock turned to look at me more seriously than I had been expecting.

"I think she likes you," I told him lightly.

"Someone is taking advantage of her, John." He said quietly. "She is scared."

"Why?" I asked equally as quiet now.

"I think she knows who really attacked Caleb Flynn."

"Are you thinking one of the other residents?" I asked.

"Possibly, but I don't think it's very likely." He said shortly.

"Now, why can't you pretend to be pleasant all the time?" I asked in mock seriousness.

"That would be far too tedious," he replied with a crooked smile before we both turned to the staircase behind us.

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_**Author's note: Sorry about taking so long to update, I have recently moved house and I don't have the internet yet :( So I'm not sure how frequent these updates are going to be. I hope you have enjoyed this chapter though!**_


	4. Episode 1, Chapter 4

**The Case of the Invisible Man, Chapter Four: The Evidence Starts to Speak**

We both stood in the hallway of Mrs Addison's house-turned-apartments, looking to the staircase upon which she was insistent that she saw our client, Declan Braxton, arguing with the victim, Caleb Flynn.

"Why do we have two completely different stories?" I asked Sherlock quietly.

"Because Mrs Addison is protecting someone," Sherlock answered, equally as quiet.

"So you would believe Braxton over Mrs Addison?"

"Don't you?" he said with a slight glare.

"I don't know," I admitted, not overly sure on where everything was going and what was truth and what was lies.

"Neither do I," Sherlock said very quietly, clearly not liking what he had just admitted. "Until this very moment there has been a convenient lack of evidence. John, it is very important that we both forget everything that we have been told so far – including what Miss Flynn has told us – in order to let the evidence speak for itself. That is except for one fact."

"What one?"

"Mrs Addison said that she saw Braxton and Flynn arguing on the stairs," he said, moving to the foot of the stairs and kneeling down.

"But Braxton said that they hadn't been together on the stairs." I said with a frown.

"Exactly, so who _did_ Mrs Addison see on the stairs?" Sherlock asked looking up to me with his eyebrows raised. "Because she definitely did see someone, John, and it was more than just an _argument_."

"How can you tell something like that?" I asked as I moved closer to him.

"What can you see?" he asked as he stood back up to his full height again, looking up the stairs.

I looked to the stairs more carefully now, knowing that he wouldn't have appreciated me stating the obvious. I quickly took in each step and the wall, which was where I noticed some odd scuff marks.

"Was someone dragged up the stairs?" I asked him quietly, feeling taken aback.

He gave me a small smile and nodded. "It would seem so, which of course implies that Caleb had come downstairs at some point."

I watched him as he fell into silence and, armed with his small magnifying glass, he basically crawled up the stairs until he reached the landing. He looked around for a few moments before crawling back down the stairs backwards and once he reached the bottom. He stayed down on all fours and examined the carpet at the base of the stairs, lowering his face so that he could sniff the spot at which he was.

"Mild form of bleach," he said quietly as he sat back up and leant on his legs. "The carpet is slightly discoloured; Hopkins needs to get forensics back here with their Polilight to confirm the presence of blood."

"Blood," I repeated.

Sherlock gave a small nod. "There are tiny traces of blood on every few steps which seems consistent with the working theory that someone has fallen down the stairs."

"Did he fall though?" I asked in a very low whisper. "I mean, look what happened to the poor bloke."

"I am confident that he was pushed, and I am confident that there was no argument." Sherlock stated. "After he fell down, Caleb laid here for a few minutes before he was picked up and dragged back up the stairs and into his apartment."

"Well, Braxton couldn't have done that by himself," I said remembering how little muscle the man had on him. "Even I would have struggled."

Sherlock seemed to consider this before heading upstairs and I followed him. On the landing there were two doors on opposite sides, plus the staircase led up to another level. We stopped at the door on our right.

"No signs of forced entry," Sherlock murmured before he turned the key that Hopkins had given him and opened the door.

"Maybe when Flynn was attacked the attacker took his house key out of his pocket," I suggested. "Or maybe the door was unlocked?"

"We are thinking along the same lines, John," he told me honestly as we both walked into the small flat.

It consisted of only three rooms; the bedroom, the bathroom and an open-planned kitchen/sitting room. The latter was the one that we were now standing in, looking down to a large, dried pool of blood before a black leather sofa, a small black mobile phone laying unnoticed under it. I felt that there were obvious signs of a struggle, with a few table lamps having been knocked over and one of the stools at the kitchen bench had been over-turned.

Again, I watched Sherlock in silence as he made his way around the room examining anything that he could get his hands on and I waited patiently out of the way for him to reveal what he had discovered. I did find it odd that there looked like there had been some kind of a fight in here, considering that it looked like Caleb Flynn had been pushed down the stairs. If that had of happened, he would have been in no state to put up any kind of fight once he'd been dragged back in here.

"It looks like a robbery," Sherlock voiced eventually.

"Nothing was found on Braxton when they arrested him," I said, thinking aloud. "Of course, he could have dumped it on his journey to the hospital, but then what was the point of it all?" I finished, trying to be objective.

Sherlock disappeared into the bedroom for a while, obviously trying to discover anything that might help give an explanation, but when he came back out into the sitting room I could tell that he had been unsuccessful.

"This all feels like a crime of convenience, that the assailant robbed the place because he _could_." He said quietly and I could hear uncharacteristic doubt in his voice.

"What do you mean?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to answer but the door opened and Hopkins walked in, looking at Sherlock expectantly.

"Well," he said.

"_Well_, I don't know how you ever became _detective inspector_ with all the things you've missed!"

"Sherlock," I groaned in a lame protest as Hopkins glared at him.

"Oh really?" asked Hopkins hotly. "Well, if it matters to you at all Mr Holmes, when I first arrived here it seemed like an iron-glad case against Braxton considering we had an eye-witness."

"Oh, I am sorry, I didn't realise that Police took everything at face value! Why not be a little different from the rest of those mindless apes and show some intuitive. People always lie, I thought you would have realised that by now."

I looked awkwardly from Sherlock to Hopkins, who was staring at Sherlock with a slight twitch in his eye.

"Go on then, tell me what I have missed, and don't spare my feelings!" Hopkins said sourly, probably wondering why he had asked Sherlock into the case at this point.

"Blood on the staircase," Sherlock told him quickly obviously taking the detective's comment to heart. "Caleb Flynn was pushed down the stairs; you'll need to get forensics back here with the Polilight to confirm all of this of course. There is also strong evidence to suggest that the man has been burgled –"

"I have it on good authority that nothing has been stolen." Hopkins interrupted hotly.

"Imogen Flynn saying on the day that her father had been brutally attacked that nothing had been stolen?" Sherlock assumed with a slight laugh. "You call _that_ good authority? All you had to do was to open one of the drawers, all the evidence was there waiting."

Hopkins reluctantly opened the drawer of the tall hallway table beside him.

"It's a mess," he said, looking back over to Sherlock.

"Exactly, look at the rest of the place; it's clean, organised and everything has its place. Now why would the victim have untidy drawers and wardrobes if the rest of the house was spotless?"

"Because someone has rummaged through them," I said with a nod.

"You'll have to get Imogen Flynn back here, Detective Inspector, and make her go through everything in this apartment. When we find out what is missing we may be able to tell what might have provoked the attack."

"Where are you going?" Hopkins asked as Sherlock made for the door.

"Back to Baker Street," he answered simply. "Oh, and one more thing, what do you know about the other people living here?

"There is one bloke living on the top floor – mid-twenties – then there is a husband and wife who live together across the hall." Hopkins said from memory.

"Alibies?" asked Sherlock.

"The bloke upstairs is currently holidaying in Australia according to Mrs Addison," Hopkins said, reading from his small notebook. "A Benjamin Hardgraves, works somewhere on the Thames when he is in the country though, she could remember where though."

"Travels a lot then?" I asked with a crooked smile.

"Apparently," Hopkins said. "It would be nice to have so much free time,"

"And the husband and wife?" pressed Sherlock, getting us back on topic.

"The wife, Lucy works down Canary Wharf all day Monday-to-Friday and the husband, Damon Hughes, is up in Scotland on a business trip and gets back on Thursday and he will have been gone for a full week. He also works in the City for a law firm. I'm not sure on the particulars of their jobs, either."

Sherlock frowned for a few moments, talking in the information that had just been given to him.

"Interesting," he said eventually. "Will you send around the CCTV footage?"

"I will have that done right away," Hopkins nodded before Sherlock left the room.

"You'll come back to Baker Street?" I asked Hopkins, you again nodded.

"Sure, after I have caught up on everything that I have apparently missed." He said, giving a short, tired laugh which didn't quite meet his eyes.

"Try not to be too offended," I said in an attempt to put the detective at ease. "You know what he is like,"

I received a true smile from him this time. "Yeah, and make sure he keeps me up to date."

I gave him a lazy salute and left the apartment, re-joining Sherlock outside beside the unmarked police car.

"You know," I started once we made off towards the main street together. "One day people are going to stop asking for your help."

No they won't." Sherlock said confidently, making me smile despite my efforts not to.

4


	5. Episode 1, Chapter 5

_**Author's note: Here is the next Chapter, I hope you enjoy! Oh, and you have no idea how exhausting it is to write and episode of Sherlock unless you have actually written and episode. Some say knowledge is power, but I feel as though it can be more of a burden, especially when you are writing. When you know all about the forensic procedures that go on, you have a need to make sure that they are all correct in you stories, which is a little difficult with Sherlock. Anyway, I'll stop complaining and let you read :P**_

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**The Case of the Invisible Man, Chapter Five: A New Suspect**

Sherlock and I arrived back at Baker Street around ten minutes after leaving Hopkins back at Chagford Street. Sherlock had remained silent the entire trip back home and I didn't press him for a conversation, for I knew that he was in very deep thought.

After making myself a cup of tea, I sunk into my usual chair by the fire with that morning's newspaper. There wasn't much more about the case that I could draw conclusions from on my own, and it seemed evident by Sherlock's impatient pacing that he wasn't ready to discuss things with me yet.

I heard the doorbell ring downstairs as I was halfway through the paper and I looked around to the door that led into the stairwell, straining my ears to hear who it was calling on us, but all I could make out was Mrs Hudson.

I glanced back to Sherlock who was beside me in front of the fire, who was watching the door expectantly and moments later, Mrs Hudson appeared carrying a small cardboard box.

Sherlock, being the polite, gentle being that he was, instantly strode over to her and snatched the box off her and moved to the television.

"Someone from the police dropped that off for you, Sherlock." She told him but he didn't turn and acknowledge her.

"Thanks for bringing it up Mrs Hudson," I said warmly, knowing to well that Sherlock probably wasn't going to thank her.

Mrs Hudson smiled down to me before looking back to Sherlock, who was currently fighting with the DVD player.

"What is it?" she asked me in confusion.

"CCTV footage," I explained.

"Interesting case then?" she smiled, patting me gently on my shoulder before leaving the room and shutting the door quietly behind her.

I put down my newspaper and looked over to the television with interest. Sherlock stood in front of it so I naturally had to lean on the arm of my chair to actually see the image, which was of the brown-bricked home that we had just visited not an hour ago. The time and date stamp in the bottom left-hand corner indicated that the footage was from last Friday at three-forty in the afternoon. Once the time stamp indicated four o'clock, we both saw Declan Braxton enter the building after being let in by Mrs Addison, just like Braxton had told us. Sherlock fast-forwarded the footage until we saw him leave at twenty-to-five, again, just as he had said. Sherlock zoomed in as far as he possibly could with the DVD remote (which really wasn't all that much) in order to get a closer look at the alleged suspect.

"He seems very calm for a man who had just supposedly had an argument with his father-in-law," I said slowly, squinting at the image before us.

"I thought I already proved to you that he never actually had an argument?" Sherlock said as he turned to me somewhat hotly.

I gave him a small smile and opened my mouth to tell him that he had only convinced me that Mrs Addison was lying, but something on the television screen caught my eye. Sherlock saw this and looked back to the screen too.

A well-dressed man in a grey suit and blue tie stepped out of number thirty-four Chagford Street, glancing around him before turning to his left and heading up towards Malcombe Street carrying a small leather briefcase.

"Who," I said quietly as I leant forward in my seat. "Was that?"

Sherlock quickly re-wound the DVD until the time stamp read half-three and at three-thirty-five we saw the same man enter the house with what looked like a key.

"He's a resident!" I gasped looking intently to Sherlock as he looked around to me. "He could be the attacker, Sherlock, he left just after Braxton and he's carrying a briefcase – you said that stuff had been stolen from the victim's apartment."

"Don't be too quick to jump to that conclusion, John." Sherlock said slowly in a quiet, deep voice. "This man was only inside the building for thirteen minutes and that doesn't give someone a very long time to push someone down the stairs, drag them back up again, stab them six times and also go for a rummage through the victim's drawers."

"But," I said as he started to pace around again, not letting him dismiss me so easily. "But according to Hopkins, all the residents have alibies remember?"

I saw him frown as he thought this over and he didn't look too pleased with my point. It was almost as though this new development didn't fit in with how he thought this crime had occurred.

"What's wrong?" I asked with a heavy sigh. "You've just found someone who wasn't meant to have been at the house and you look as though it has ruined everything."

"Nothing is wrong," Sherlock snapped moodily as he moved back to the television.

I gave another sigh, knowing all too well that this was not sitting well with my friend, and I knew that he was going to be in a loathsome mood until he worked out exactly why it didn't sit right. In all honesty I couldn't see why it didn't sit right him; either the man who was meant to be in Scotland or the man who was meant to be in Australia was actually in London at the time of a very brutal attack. That should be enough to make even Sherlock Holmes unquestionably suspicious.

The rest of the afternoon, however passed very slowly. Sherlock had stopped looking at the CCTV footage not long after our little discovery. He had continued to pace around the apartment, muttering incoherently to himself for a while, before he began playing his violin in his bedroom with his door shut. Yet again I was left to my own devices as I waited for Hopkins to re-join us, time which I spent updating my blog with our last case.

"_The Problem of Thor Bridge_?" read Sherlock from over my shoulder, distaste in his voice. "_That_ is what you are calling the case where the victims would be forced to shoot themselves in the head to make it look like it was a suicide?"

"Sherlock," I said attempting to keep my voice level. "The guy who made the victim's kill themselves dressed up as the superhero Thor and told us that he was ridding the world of those who he thought didn't deserve to live. And he did it all on a bridge."

Sherlock screwed up his face at my reasoning.

"Look, if I didn't update this blog with all of your cases, you would be bored and unemployed. The only reason you have so many cases is because of the fact that the public read it!"

"I would not," he pouted. "Scotland Yard need me because they are all mindless apes and they know that half of the cases they get would remain unsolved if they didn't ask for my help."

"They all read my blog too, Sherlock." I said looking back to my laptop with a slight smile as Sherlock scoffed. "Lestrade, Gregson, Hopkins, Dimmock –"

Sherlock groaned in frustration as he made to storm off but he soon stopped due to the fact that the doorbell once again rang from downstairs, and Hopkins opened the door into our sitting room moments later, much to me relief.

"Evening," he smiled as he took a seat on the sofa.

"Well," Sherlock pressed impatiently, obviously still annoyed by what I had said just before Hopkins arrived.

"Imogen Flynn came around and confirmed your theory about the robbery." Hopkins said sounding tired. "She apologised for not noticing when she first arrived there –"

"You could hardly blame her," I said, closing my laptop and looking at the detective, who was nodding in agreement.

"What was taken?" Sherlock asked as he began to pace.

"Money mostly," he answered. "Ms Flynn wasn't exactly sure how much money her father kept in the place, but she gathered that it would be enough to pay a week's worth of rent, groceries and bills in case he was ever caught out. I don't think he trusts the banks all that much, but then, who does these days? She also noted that some of her late mother's jewellery was missing too but we couldn't work out why he guy didn't take his mobile or computer."

"Flynn's computer was too bulky and would have drawn too much attention to the attacker when he finally left the house, plus you saw how old the thing was." Sherlock said, looking across to Hopkins. "Not to mention that both a mobile phone and a computer hard-drive aren't as easy to re-sell these days with all the extra security that is built in. Jewellery however can be melted down and resold as something new. What about the Polilight results?"

"The Polilight tested positive for blood, so someone from the lab came and took samples of the carpet and we're just waiting to hear the results which will come through in the next two days if there isn't any other major case that takes priority." Hopkins said. "Mrs Addison isn't overly pleased – forensics has left two great holes in her carpet."

"Two," I repeated feeling confused.

"One is the control sample," Sherlock explained shortly. "They should also send the sample off for chemical testing once DNA has come back." He added to Hopkins.

"Yeah, I have already requested that and I also asked if Mrs Addison if she knew of anyone falling down the stairs recently or if anyone cleaned up a stain of the carpet." He said and Sherlock raised his eyebrows in interest. "She denied all of that, but I am starting to get the feeling that she isn't being overly truthful with us."

I saw Sherlock smirk at this comment as he turned away from the hard-working police officer.

"Anyway, did you come up with anything from the CCTV footage?" Hopkins asked hopefully.

"We did actually," I said and I noticed Sherlock slump slightly. "Someone entered the building with a key at sixteen-thirty-five hours and left again at sixteen-fifty-three hours, carrying a briefcase. It could be possible that Mrs Addison didn't see him."

"Show me!" said Hopkins eagerly, leaning forwards on the sofa.

Sherlock obeyed in a less-than-enthusiastic manner and I felt confused about his motives; did he really feel that this man had nothing to do with the crime?

"I know him!" Hopkins gasped as Sherlock hit pause the DVD and we both looked to him. "He's the husband who is meant to be up in Scotland!"

Sherlock gave a sudden, deep sigh.

"He isn't the one who attacked Flynn." He said in a bored tone.

_So he really didn't that this man is the bad guy_, I thought as I looked to Hopkins, wondering what he was going to say.

"Oh really?" he said as he stood up, a bothered frown on his face. "Forgive me if I don't just take your word for it, Holmes, considering you recently told me to show some intuitive after all. His wife was adamant that he had left to drive up to Scotland the day before the attack so either she is in on something or he's lied to her. That is something that I will find out."

Sherlock rolled his eyes before throwing the DVD remote across to me before turning to walk through the kitchen and into his bedroom.

"Contact me when you've stopped being so _boring_." We heard him call to us in his usual bored drawl before his door snapped shut.

"What?" asked Hopkins in a confused manner as he looked across to me.

"Don't ask me, I'm as lost as you are." I admitted quietly.

4


	6. Episode 1, Chapter 6

_**Author's note: Hello readers! I thought I would try something different in this chapter by having part of it told through the eyes of Sherlock. It felt a little weird, so tell me what you think of it and if I should continue to add little scenes like this. I was going to add a lot more, but then I felt as though I gave to much information away too soon. Mind, I do feel like I have already givin away too much. I was re-watching the DVD commentary for the Great Game and Mark Gatiss said that when you write you feel like everything is too obvious but you still worry that no one will get it. That is how I am feeling now!**_

_**Oh and just so you know, in this chapter, I am giving away some subtle clues to future stories that I have written roughly... Yay!**_

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The Case of the Invisible Man, Chapter six: Excuses, excuses.

Sherlock Holmes paced around his flat irritably that afternoon once Detective Inspector Hopkins had left. _Imagine_, he thought to himself with a smirk, _thinking that the man they had found on the CCTV footage was a suspect_. He gave a short, contemptuous laugh which caused John to glance over to him questioningly but Sherlock didn't pay him much attention.

"Don't you have a date or something?" Sherlock asked not really interested in John's answer but he felt as though he should attempt to make some conversation, however dull it was for him.

"Nope," John answered him as Sherlock picked up his violin and he could hear the stiffness in his friend's tired voice. "Janette isn't speaking to me after what happened on Christmas Eve."

"What happened on Christmas Eve?" Sherlock asked lightly as he rested the violin under his chin and gazed over to him.

John scoffed and looked at him in a-you-know-exactly-what-happened way as he got to his feet and walked into the kitchen in an attempt to find something for his dinner. John was right, of course, because he remembered that night in great detail; it had been the night that Irene Adler had been supposedly found dead but he knew that John was referring to him upsetting one of the many dull and unworthy girlfriends with something that he had said. He couldn't remember what exactly though; unimportant.

As Sherlock heard John muttering to himself incoherently, he began to play his violin. He didn't play anything in particular; it was just random notes to help him think, some of the tunes being easier to listen to than others.

He thought carefully over all the facts that he had accumulated over that day, knowing that something really didn't make any sense. Declan Braxton had no motive, or the strength to attack Caleb Flynn and from the footage it seemed as though the husband who was meant to be in Scotland couldn't have pulled it off either. Sure they could have pushed him down the stairs but they couldn't have dragged him back up again.

_But what if they had worked together_? He thought and he stopped his screeching melody only for a moment until he dismissed the idea. He felt that it was highly unlikely seeing as no one that he had spoken to had eluded to any connection between either of them and the items that had been stolen were too petty for a devoted nurse and a man who worked in the City in what Sherlock presumed to be a high paying job.

The only other person in the house (apart from Flynn himself and Sherlock had dismissed the idea that the attack was self-administered once he'd seen the man's wounds) was the landlady and he had no doubt in his mind that she hadn't committed the attack, but she _did_ know something about it.

Sherlock's melody suddenly became much harsher. What if there was someone else in the building, someone that no one knew about except for Mrs Addison? He was annoyed with himself for having not thinking of it sooner and cursing at his own stupidity, Sherlock hastily dropped his long-suffering violin in the chair beside him and quickly moved to the television.

"There is someone else that we don't know about, John." He said as he re-wound the DVD of the CCTV footage. "John?" he added, glancing around the silent room after not receiving the expected '_Really, how could you possibly know that?_' from John.

He glanced down to his watch and found that it was almost midnight, which explained John's absence. He gave a slight sigh and turned his attentions back to the footage again. When the time stamp read 14:30 on the Friday afternoon he saw a man – a man whom he hadn't seen on the footage before, walk up to the door of thirty-nine Chagford Street and knock on the door, which opened moments later and he quickly disappeared inside. Sherlock knew that this man _could_ be the man that lived on the top floor, but he felt it was unlikely due to his nervousness. Yet, if it wasn't him who could it be? He pondered. Regardless, he had to go and check the apartment on the top floor for evidence of either its owner or a very clever squatter.

-O-

I woke up the following morning to find the flat in an eerie silence. I had gone to bed the previous night with Sherlock refusing to speak and continuously playing his violin in a very unrefined manner. It must have only stopped at around twenty-to-midnight, because that was when I finally dozed off.

When I went downstairs it was obvious that Sherlock had gone out early. The sitting room was pretty much as I left it, except for the television had been left on and the DVD player was still open. I frowned, wondering what Sherlock was up to.

He didn't return home until that afternoon, not that his presence in Baker Street really improved. He once again shut himself in his room and, again, he refused to speak to me for the whole night, so it was a big relief when Hopkins called on Thursday morning to tell us that the husband whom had lied about his alibi was heading into the station to answer some questions.

"Are you going to tell me where you went yesterday?" I asked Sherlock after we had both gotten into a cab.

"Out," he answered darkly which made my temper flare up.

"Sherlock," I complained. "I'm not completely stupid, you know. You went over the CCTV footage again and you've found something else haven't you?"

"I thought there might've been something else but I was wrong." He said flicking up his coat collar and folding his arms moodily.

I really wanted to press him further because I knew that he had another theory, one that had nothing to do with the man we were about to see, but it was hopeless. I had to accept that he, like always, wouldn't say anything until he was ready, and even then I might have to find a way to force it out of him.

Once we reached Scotland Yard, we waited eagerly (well, I waited eagerly, Sherlock just sat in Hopkins' swivel chair behind the desk spinning around with a bored expression on his face) in Hopkins small office.

"Sorry I kept you waiting," Hopkins said cheerfully before his eyes fell onto the bored Sherlock. "I haven't interviewed the husband yet, I was waiting for you."

"You should have done it already," Sherlock drawled. "I hardly need to interview him."

I exchanged a quick glance with Hopkins who said "He's in interview room three."

Sherlock stood with a sigh, straightened his coat then walked from the office.

"I don't think he believes we'll find this guy very useful," I said to Hopkins apologetically.

"I know," Hopkins sighed. "I have to admit that my gut feeling isn't exactly pointing in his direction, but a lead is a lead and there are some questions he definitely needs to answer."

_Like the question about what was in the briefcase we saw him taking out of the building_, I thought to myself as I followed Hopkins around to the interview room that was situated off one of the halls. Sherlock had waited outside the room for us and we both entered after him.

Once inside the room I noted that Sherlock leant against the glass wall just beside the door with his arms folded and his intelligent eyes fixed on the man whom was sitting on the opposite side of the table. I looked to the man now and found that he was in an expensive suit, had black hair that was speckled with grey and brown eyes. His face was fairly rounded and his features weren't very pronounced but I could see definite confusion in his eyes.

"About time," he said in a snooty London accent. "I've been here for over an hour, what is all of this about? Should I have my lawyer present?"

Sherlock groaned. "Boring,"

"You only need a lawyer present if you have done something wrong, Mr Hughes." Hopkins said with a smile as he sat down in front of Sherlock and he invited me to do the same. "I just wanted to ask you a few questions about the attack on Caleb Flynn and this is the first chance I've had to ask you."

"Oh yes," Hughes said seeming to relax a bit. "Poor old man, I heard what happened to him from my wife. I was up in Scotland at the time though, so I'm not sure how I can be of much use."

"Where is it that you work exactly?" Hopkins asked

"I work at McDougal and Miller," Hughes told us. "It's a law firm specialising in financial law and it's in the Gherkin building in the financial district."

"And what was the business trip for?"

"It was a chance for all of our agencies to get together, and Edinburgh is where the business started nearly one hundred years ago." He said almost lazily and I noted that Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Did all of your staff go?" asked Hopkins.

"No, it was only the more senior staff of course." Hughes stated stiffly, almost offended. "A company like ours has far too many people to fly up to Scotland. Besides, why would we need the general employee's? They can't bring anything important to the table; they seem to only be concerned with trivial things such as the brand of coffee supplied in the staff rooms."

"No, the hard working people who research your cases and do the legwork for you don't really sit and play well with your type do they Mr Hughes?" Sherlock said sarcastically, giving off the very strong impression that he didn't like our suspect very much. Hughes looked across to Sherlock and it became obvious that the feeling was mutual.

"So your company flies everyone to Scotland when they have conferences and such, do they?" Hopkins asked with a small smile and Sherlock looked to Hopkins.

"Yes, yes, that is the standard procedure." Hughes said dismissively.

"But you drove up." Hopkins said simply, looking at the man with keen eyes.

"What?" Hughes asked, now looking uncomfortable.

"Your wife, Mr Hughes, told us that you left to drive up to Scotland on the Thursday morning," Hopkins said calmly as he read from his notebook in his hand. "Why did you do that if you were supplied with free flights?"

"I enjoy driving," Hughes said elusively, avoiding Hopkins' gaze.

"Oh right," Hopkins said cynically and from the corner of my eye I could see that Sherlock was looking quite amused now.

"I don't see how this has anything to do with Flynn's attack." Hughes snapped.

"Seeing as what your profession is, I am going to cut right to the chase, Mr Hughes." Hopkins said, putting his notebook down and leaning forward in his chair to gaze sternly at the financial lawyer. "Your wife thinks that you left London bright and early on Thursday morning, but I think we all know that isn't quite true, don't we?"

Hughes seemed to think about this for a few moments before giving a lame reply.

"I was driving to Scotland –"

"How long have you been having an affair with your secretary, Mr Hughes?" Sherlock said and I looked to him with a frown, wondering how on earth he had come to that conclusion.

Hughes glared lividly over to my friend.

"I don't know what you are trying to insinuate –"

"I wasn't insinuating anything, merely stating the rather obvious." Sherlock said with a pleased smile.

"You were seen on CCTV footage entering your apartment building on Friday afternoon – the day after you had supposedly left London." Hopkins said before Hughes had the chance to speak again, and it seemed that he also had seen the affair coming. "I also personally went over your bank details and found that all of your purchases were made in Chelsea until Sunday afternoon, where you finally caught your plane up to Edinburgh."

I looked to the inspector impressed as Hughes stared at him in a mix of fury and fear.

"Oh, and don't worry, I had search warrants." Hopkins added.

"You had better have had them otherwise I will have _you_ doing time!" Hughes spat furiously.

"You're a financial solicitor, Mr Hughes," Sherlock said, obviously still amused. "I think we all know that you aren't really the one to be making threats."

"And who are you then?" Hughes asked spitefully.

"Oh, no one of great importance," Sherlock shrugged. "Just the man who can tell you that you were in, or had just left your apartment building while Caleb Flynn was being attacked, and that very man is now in hospital with six stab wounds in his chest. I am fairly certain that most of the men in prison don't enjoy the company of solicitors, no matter what branch they are in."

"I didn't do it, I swear!" said Hughes quickly as he looked back to Hopkins who had raised his eyebrows. I couldn't help but give Sherlock a slight smile as he smirked down at me.

"Talk," Hopkins instructed sternly.

Hughes nodded and took a deep breath.

"I didn't leave London until the Sunday afternoon." He said eventually. "I had taken Thursday and Friday off and so did my secretary."

"How long?" asked Hopkins referring to what I guessed to be the affair.

"Six months," he admitted miserably. "My wife, she doesn't know –"

"No kidding," I said disapprovingly.

"It has only recently become more serious between us, which is the reason behind the weekend spent together. She wasn't coming to Edinburgh with me, so I didn't think that my wife would suspect anything."

"Why did you go back to the apartment then?" Hopkins asked slowly, and I had to admit that Hughes had been taking a very big risk.

"The Thursday night I had taken my secretary out to dinner and the blasted waiter spilt red wine on my good suit. So, on Friday I took it to get it dry cleaned then went back to the flat to get another one, knowing that my wife was at work."

"What did you carry the new suit out of the flat in?" I asked, thinking of the briefcase that we'd all seen in the CCTV footage.

"An old briefcase that I knew my wife wouldn't notice was missing," he answered.

"And what exactly did you do and see whilst you were in the building?" Sherlock asked seriously and he rested his hands on the back of my chair as he stared intently down to Hughes. "Spare no detail." He added.

"Well, I let myself in with a key because I really didn't want the landlady to see me – she might have told the wife, see – but I didn't have to worry about her because she was making cookies or something. She seemed really distracted and didn't notice me sneak up the stairs."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed before his hands came together before his face. "Are you sure?"

Hughes nodded. "I quickly let myself into the flat, got my briefcase and my suit then waited at my door until Caleb Flynn had stopped talking with his son-in-law."

"Were they arguing?" Hopkins asked intently.

"No, they were laughing about something and then his son-in-law told him that he would go with him to this house-viewing thing in a week or so, you know, because his knees were letting him down lately and he had done his back a few days before that moving stuff around in the attic –"

"'_Always such a good boy_'," Sherlock murmured and we all looked enquiringly to him.

"Then what did you do?" Hopkins pressed, still frowning at Sherlock's strange interruption.

"Caleb said goodbye, shut his door and I waited a few minutes before I left too."

"And you saw Braxton leave?" I asked him.

"I basically followed him to Baker Street Station," Hughes said. "Although, at first I thought that he had gone upstairs because I saw a shadow on the far wall from the landing above. I thought that was a bit weird because I thought the bloke that lives up there was in Australia and has been on and off for the past three years."

"Is it possible that he has come back?" I asked, wondering if _this_ could be our attacker.

"I guess, he always keeps to himself and doesn't really have a routine."

"He isn't back yet," Sherlock said and he began to pace behind me.

"What, how could you possibly know that?" I said, turning to look at him closely.

"Hopkins, I need more CCTV footage." He said before moving to the door, getting his phone out of his jacket as he went.

"Sherlock?" asked Hopkins and we both stood up to follow him out.

"What about me?" Hughes asked and Hopkins stopped to talk with him while I kept going after Sherlock, who was just up the hallway with his phone to his ear and a look of confusion on his face.

"What's wrong?" I asked him as he replaced his phone in his jacket pocket.

"Mycroft is on a plane."

"How –"

"His phone is switched off." Sherlock stated. "He never turns his phone off unless he is on a long flight, and even then he rarely does. He must be with someone important, but I didn't realise there were any elections coming up that would take him overseas…" he added the last bit very quietly, almost to himself.

"Who could he be with?"

"Who cares?" he said dismissively.

"Not you obviously," I said lightly, understanding the type of relationship that he shared with his elder brother. "Why did you call him anyway?"

"The man who lives upstairs," Sherlock said.

"What about him?" Hopkins asked as he walked up to us. "And how do you know that he isn't there?"

"I went to have another look around."

"On your own?" asked Hopkins with a frown.

"I knew that the attacker wasn't going to be Hughes, it was too obvious that he was having an affair." Sherlock said quickly.

"That's where you went yesterday," I realised and Sherlock gave me a short nod in answer.

"I knew that there was someone else in the building that we hadn't considered, someone that we didn't even know was there."

"That Hardgraves bloke?" assumed Hopkins.

"I wasn't going to rule anything out but no one had been in his flat for at least a month and the whole flat was devoid of any personalisation. That together with the fact that he seems to be out of the country a good deal of the time and a few other reasons like a pile of convincing fake ID's was enough to suggest the Secret Service. Who better to check this suspicion with than my brother – the British Government personified. Can I use your computer?"

I shook my head slightly at the speed in which Sherlock had just told us all of this.

"I thought you needed more CCTV footage?" Hopkins asked with a confused frown as Sherlock made off towards Hopkins's office without waiting for permission.

"I need something else first," he called as he continued to walk away from us. "Besides, you still need to release Declan Braxton!"

7


	7. Episode 1, Chapter 7

_**Author's Note: I'm Baaaaccckkkkk! Yes, it really has nearly taken six months to get internet at the new house, I am so sorry! Anyway, I hope you enjoy.**_

* * *

"Have you solved it yet, Detective Inspector?" Asked Declan Braxton as he, Hopkins and I walked back towards the reception desk at Scotland Yard together, Braxton looking relieved yet tired. "Do you know who did this to Caleb?"

"Not yet Mr Braxton," Hopkins said honestly. "We just know that you didn't. It turned out that we had a witness who confirmed your actions."

"And Mr Holmes," Braxton said, looking as though he had about a million questions to ask. "Where is he?"

"He is following up another lead," Hopkins said. "Mr Braxton, I would like to formally apologise to you for everything that you have experienced, especially since you've done nothing but co-operate with us. None of this will go onto your record so there shouldn't be any problems with you returning to work."

I looked to Stanley Hopkins beside me, my respect for him doubling almost instantly with what he had just said. It was rare for a police officer to apologise to a person they had accused wrongly, especially to do it on their own accord.

"You don't have to apologise to me sir, after all, you were the one to give Holmes's name to Imogen." Braxton said, shaking Hopkins hand firmly. "Besides, I've watched more than enough police shows to know that the family are always the first ones to become suspects, so there are no hard feelings. Will you keep us up to date, Dr. Watson?"

"Of course," I said honestly. "As soon as we know anything tangible, we'll let you know."

Braxton gave me a small smile before heading over to the front desk to sign his release forms.

"And that is the problem with modern society." Hopkins said quietly to me and I raised my eyebrows.

"What's that?" I asked.

"Too many crap police drama's making everyone think that they know all about the justice system." Hopkins told me, making me laugh. "C'mon, we'll go and wait in my office for Sherlock to find whatever it is he wants."

It was as we sat in Hopkins office about half an hour later when my phone buzzed in my pocket. I quickly pulled it out and read;

_I have already got what I needed._

_Have headed to Chagford St,_

_Meet you there._

_SH_

"He's left," I said unbelievingly, looking across to Hopkins, who glanced up to me from his desk.

"What?" he asked.

"Sherlock," I answered. "He's gone back to the crime scene without us."

Hopkins gaped at me for a few moments before his shocked expression turned to that of anger.

"What did he do that for?" he asked indignantly before getting to his feet and making for the door. "We'd better catch up to him in case something goes wrong. God, why does he have to be such a twat?"

"Your guess is as good as mine, Inspector." I said, less than pleased to be left behind by Sherlock _again_.

We arrived at Chagford Street fairly quickly and Sherlock, it seemed, had only just gone inside when we rang the doorbell. The elderly Mrs Addison let us in and we joined Sherlock in the sitting room once again, both Hopkins and I shooting him angry glares to which he looked back to us innocently.

An alarming change had come over Mrs Addison since we last saw her two days ago; she was pale and thin and her hands shook violently. She told us to sit down in a small voice and Hopkins and I obeyed, seeing as we had no clue as to why we were back in the old lady's sitting room.

While Mrs Addison made us a fresh pot of tea, Sherlock walked around the room, examining the framed photographs on the walls. Despite still being angry at him, I looked to Sherlock enquiringly, not wanting to say anything that might ruin anything he had planned.

"Sherlock, how about an explanation," I whispered to him.

"Hopefully we are about to get one," He said quietly and Hopkins leaned closer to listen too. "I just need one more fact and the case is closed."

"But how-"

"You have all the information you need to form your conclusions." Sherlock said, his excitement becoming quite clear now.

I looked at him carefully as Mrs Addison re-entered the room carrying the tray upon which the tea was and I had no idea what to make of it. He said that we had all the information that we needed, and I was fairly confident that Sherlock was of the mindset that someone was in the building that shouldn't be, but to my knowledge, that only left the cheating husband's wife and Mrs Addison.

"Sherlock told me that young Declan has been released, it's such a relief isn't it?" she said eventually, but it didn't sound to me like she was very relieved at all. In fact, I would have said that she sounded the opposite of relieved.

"There was another witness that confirmed that he didn't actually have an argument on the day that Mr Flynn was attacked." Hopkins said, glancing at Sherlock who shook his head, making Hopkins frown angrily.

"You haven't been baking today?" Sherlock asked, smiling at Mrs Addison.

"No, I haven't had the time of late," She answered, before turning to me and adding, "Tea?"

"Uh, yes please," I said, glancing down to her trembling hands and taking the cup and saucer from her, noticing as I did so large, purple bruises on her small wrists. I quickly looked over to Sherlock, who unfortunately had his back to me.

"I heard from Ms Flynn that you went to visit her father in hospital this morning." Sherlock said conversationally as he turned back around to face us again.

Mrs Addison gave a small nod. "I thought it was the least I could do. He would come down and keep me company sometimes in the afternoons. Well, we would keep each other company really, seeing as his little girl was about to get married and my daughter is gone and her –"

She stopped herself from continuing and looked down to her hands that were squirming in her lap. I managed to catch Sherlock's eye and subtly indicated my wrists, then nodded in the older woman's direction. I watched as he glanced over to her, his eyes passing over her hands, then he looked back to me, giving me the slightest hint of a nod.

"What would you talk about when Caleb Flynn came to visit?" Sherlock asked, slowly pacing back and forth while he watched Mrs Addison closely.

"Nothing in particular," she said. "We are friends, we generally spoke of what we had done since we saw each other last, what we were going to do, our –"

"Families," Sherlock said quietly and she looked up to him with wide eyes. "Was Caleb meant to be coming down for tea the day he was attacked?"

"No," Mrs Addison said. "I cancelled the day before."

"Why?" pressed Sherlock, not unkindly like he normally would, he actually seemed more gentle and patient than I had ever seen him.

"I wasn't feeling well the night before," Mrs Addison said, moving uncomfortably.

"Was that because of your unexpected visitor?" he asked very quietly and Hopkins and I frowned in confusion. "I saw him come around on the afternoon before Caleb was attacked, Mrs Addison." He added after she had tried to deny what Sherlock was saying.

"Saw who?" I asked, but Sherlock ignored me as he sunk down into the sofa beside the now very upset looking woman.

"He did this to you, didn't he?" Sherlock said gently in a low voice, taking one of her hands in his and indicating the painful looking bruises on her wrist and the poor woman broke, letting out a small sob.

"Sherlock?" said Hopkins questioningly.

"Tell me what happened." Sherlock urged gently, still having a hold on her hand.

"He's been coming here on and off for a few months now." Mrs Addison said quietly as her tears flowed freely down her face.

"Sorry," Hopkins stated looking across to Sherlock sternly, obviously having had enough of being left in the dark. "Who exactly are we talking about here?"

"My Grandson, Inspector." Mrs Addison explained, turning her watery eyes to us. "He kept arriving in the middle of the night, needing a place to stay and at first I didn't mind, because I would do anything for him, but the stays were starting to get longer and he would just collapse on the sofa for days on end. I thought he was drunk, so I didn't ask many questions, but when he arrived here last Thursday afternoon I knew it wasn't that awful drink it was something worse. He was raving on and on about needed somewhere to hide, somewhere to stay where he couldn't be found. I urged him to calm down and go to the police, but he called me mad and made to leave, but I stopped him. I should have turned him away, I knew he was trouble, but I had to help him… I shouldn't have ever let him into the house!"

"Your grandson," I said slowly, making sure that I had assumed correctly as to where this confession was going. "He was the one who attacked Caleb Flynn?"

Mrs Addison nodded, wiping the tears from her face with her free hand. "I let him stay upstairs because he said they might come looking for him in my apartment, but the next morning he went out for an hour and came back angrier and more frightened than before. I didn't see him that afternoon, not until – until that horrible accident. Young Declan arrived and I fear I may have been rude to him, but at first I thought it was the people my grandson had been so scared of. Declan didn't stay too long and I heard him leave, but a few moments later I heard the front door open again and I thought it must have been my grandson leaving again. I quickly opened the front door to stop him but I couldn't see him on the street, but that was when I heard it…"

"Heard what?" I asked quickly.

"Caleb asking someone who they were upstairs," Mrs Addison whispered hoarsely. "Then there was a shout and a crashing and Caleb lay on the ground before me at the bottom of the stairs and Richard, my grandson was at the top looking like a crazed monster. I looked up to him, asking what had he done and he told me it was because he could have been a spy trying to kill him…"

"Why didn't you call the police – or at least an ambulance?" Hopkins asked sounding shocked.

"He is my grandson!" she cried, her grip on Sherlock's hand tightening. "I had to protect him; I am all he has left. He told me that he would take him back upstairs and try and help him and that I was to get rid of the mat at the bottom of the stairs because of all the blood."

"But he didn't help him," Hopkins said slowly. "He took Flynn upstairs and stabbed him six times and then stole half his valuables."

"I know!" she cried, placing her face in her hands after finally letting go of Sherlock's hand. "By the time I had wiped the blood from the walls and washed the mat in my laundry, Caleb's daughter had arrived and I realised what my grandson had done to Caleb and I just couldn't believe that my Richard could have done such a thing, he had always been such a good boy."

I sat back in my chair, a look of sadness on my face as I watched Mrs Addison cry into her old, wrinkled hands. I could hardly take it all in myself, and I felt sorry for her considering that her own grandson had taken advantage of her.

"No,' Sherlock said suddenly and I looked to him, surprised to see his arm around the old woman as he glared at Hopkins.

"Sherlock she is going to have to come down to the station." Hopkins said quietly. "She'll be charged with being an accessory at the very least."

"No she won't." Sherlock said sternly.

"Why not?" asked Hopkins clearly not liking what he had to do.

"Because of her bruises," I said softly, leaning forwards. "Mrs Addison, when did he give you those bruises?"

"It was after you all left the other day," she told me quietly and I grimaced, feeling sick with a sudden wave of guilt. "Richard came downstairs and he was so angry. He thought I had betrayed him to you. He left the house after that, and he didn't get back until that night and he had a new backpack. He could hardly walk, but he didn't want my help…"

"Was he drunk?" I asked.

"He had taken drugs." Sherlock told me quietly.

"He went upstairs again and that where he has stayed." Mrs Addison cried guiltily. "I've been too scared to go up and check on him…"

"It's okay, Mrs Addison," Sherlock said soothingly. "He can't hurt you anymore. Now, you will have to wait here while we check the house, but you might be safer in your bedroom."

He helped her to her feet and she walked, sobbing, into her the kitchen, where Sherlock turned back to to Hopkins and I as we both stood up now too.

5


	8. Episode 1, Chapter 8

_**Author's Note: Okay, so I couldn't wait that much longer to post the final chapter, and I will admit right now that it is a bit of a favourite of mine with everything that goes on. I hope that the storyline wasn't too obvious from the start; I remember watching the audio commentary for the Sherlock episode of The Great Game and Mark Gatiss said that when you write, you feel that everything is too obvious, but then you also worry that no one gets it. I can fully appreciate his fear!. A bit of the inspiration for this story came from The Adventure of the Red Circle, but not too much.**_

_**Also, I have added a little scene at the end that serves as a lead in to the next few episodes, so I would love to hear your thoughts on that. Again, I am hoping that I'm not giving too much away. Anyway, enjoy it guys, because I have already written another two episodes and I have just started a fourth!**_

* * *

_**The Case of the Invisible Man, Chapter Eight; The Invisible Man**_

"Okay, how did you know it was her grandson?" I asked him quietly.

"When we came to visit Mrs Addison the first time, John, she said the words _'he was always such a good boy'_. That implies someone she knows on a personal level and someone she has known since they were very young, which was clearly not Declan Braxton, who grew up in Ireland." Sherlock explained quickly.

"You got all of that from a single sentence?" Hopkins asked with his eyebrows raised.

"Oh no, not everything Detective," Sherlock said with a small smile before launching into his quick, detailed explanation of all the facts. "All the evidence has been pointing in the direction of Richard Rodgers – better known as Dicky on the street. Firstly, Declan Braxton tells us that when he arrived at Chagford Street, Mrs Addison seemed distracted. Her excuse was that she had been woken up from an afternoon nap which she herself later disproved to us when she said she had been watching TV. Braxton also mentioned a fact which I had foolishly forgotten about until less than an hour ago; Caleb Flynn had recently helped Mrs Addison clean out the attic."

I exchanged a quick glance with Hopkins, each of us slowly starting to catch up with Sherlock.

"So," Sherlock continued, "when we arrive here on Tuesday, Mrs Addison opens the door for us and looks over her shoulder nervously. Obviously, there was something in this building that she wanted to hide from us. Once inside this room, I observed the picture frames that appeared to be regularly cleaned and polished that contained pictured of what looked like her family. The fact that they were cleaned so often was an obvious sign that she missed the people in them and that they didn't visit her that often, yet why did she have a fresh batch of chocolate chip biscuits ready for us. Now why would a grandmother bake a fresh batch of biscuits that have enough sugar in them to make the elderly diabetic _unless_ she had someone a lot younger coming to visit? Mrs Addison also said things to suggest that a young family member had been around, the _'good boy'_ comment I mentioned earlier was one, and then, more importantly, she said _'and they only call on you when everything goes wrong.'_"

"Brilliant," I said, earning a small smile from him.

"So, the grandson got in trouble with someone on the street and came here for refuge." Hopkins said slowly.

"Drug dealers most likely, but he was also wanted by Scotland Yard for numerous break-and-enters around the area." Sherlock told him, producing a folded piece of paper which he held out for Hopkins.

"Okay," I nodded, accepting Sherlock's series of events so far. "But if his MO so far has just been breaking into people's houses and stealing stuff, why would he suddenly attempt to murder someone?"

"He was detoxing, he hadn't left the house in twelve hours so his cravings would have been the only thing on his mind, and this suggests he was probably on a harder, more addictive drug, which eliminates most party drugs." Sherlock said, and I could tell that he was becoming more excited now. "Needing to satisfy his cravings, he emerges from his hiding place only to come across Caleb Flynn, who was going to go and check on Mrs Addison downstairs. Flynn questions Rodgers as to who he is, and Rodgers panics – whether it was because he thought that Flynn was Secret Service and about to arrest him is irrelevant – and pushed Flynn down the stairs. He then convinced his poor grandmother to let him handle things, so he dragged the almost unconscious man back upstairs and into his unlocked apartment. Once inside, Rodgers saw the true potential of the situation and ransacked the apartment and made it look as though the attack had happened in there."

"Why though?" asked Hopkins.

"He was in hiding from police and drug dealers; he had money issues." Sherlock said in a tone that told me that we should have already known that. "Anyway, while Rodgers was going through drawers, Flynn managed to get out his mobile phone from his pocket and dialled his daughter's number before purposely leaving it under the sofa. Rodgers had filled his pockets with the money and the jewellery, grabbed a knife from the kitchen servery and presumably attempted to get information on who had put Flynn up to following him."

"Mrs Addison said that her grandson had been staying upstairs, but you've said that there has been no one living in the apartment upstairs in at least a month." I said with a frown.

"Yes, I will admit that this point had thrown me slightly," Sherlock nodded, not seeming to be embarrassed by admitting such a thing. "While I was watching the CCTV footage again after you had gone to bed John, I went back to the very beginning of the tape, which started at twelve noon on the Thursday and finished at midnight, Friday. At two-thirty Thursday afternoon, I saw a young man enter the building, let in by Mrs Addison, and judging by her reaction she knew him quite well.

"So I continued watching the footage. Braxton and our cheating husband both came and went, as did Ms Flynn, the police and the paramedics, but there was no sign of the man whom I had seen enter. I knew at once that he still had to be inside this building at the time of the attack, which was the very reason I came back yesterday to look at the upstairs apartment, where the evidence suggested that I was wrong."

"Heaven forbid!" the detective muttered sarcastically, the sides of his mouth twitching.

"I probably would have solved this case a lot sooner had I taken you along that day, John, seeing as though I may occasionally overthink situations." Sherlock said, once again smiling at me as he ignored Hopkins' comment. "It wasn't until after the interview that he had with Damon Hughes this afternoon that it finally came to me. He said to us that he had seen a shadow move upstairs and then I remembered what Flynn had helped Mrs Addison do."

"He's in the attic," I said quickly and looked to Hopkins eagerly.

Sherlock gave a single nod.

"I checked CCTV footage and Rodger's hasn't left the house since yesterday." Sherlock said seriously.

"I'll call for back-up," Hopkins said, quickly leaving the room most likely to head to his car to radio in.

"Sherlock," I said quietly, subconsciously glancing upwards. "This guy could either be high as a kite or detoxing, which makes him a very dangerous man in both cases."

"I know," he replied quietly. "We need to make sure Hughes' wife isn't up in their apartment."

I followed him out of Mrs Addison's sitting room and we slowly made our way up the stairs to the first landing. Sherlock quickly knocked on the door and called out to Mrs Hughes, but no answer came. I exchanged a quick glance with Sherlock before I felt a sudden, sharp pain in the back of my head and heard him call out to me in shock.

I fell forward onto my knees, grabbing my head in pain. My vision was blurred and my head was spinning. I could hear the distinct sounds of a struggle behind me but I didn't move until I heard Sherlock gasp in pain.

"John!" he called and I quickly stood up, grabbing hold of the wall to support myself as my vision slowly returned to normal. When I turned I found that Sherlock was pinned down on the floor with a bulky, young man sitting on his chest with his hands around Sherlock's throat. I instantly sprung forwards and put all of my force into kicking the guy in the back. He was flung forwards off Sherlock, whom I grabbed and pulled up to his feet.

"Hopkins!" I yelled down the stairs, hoping to God that the police officer would hear me as Sherlock collapsed against the wall, holding his throat and taking large gulps of air.

The young man got back to his feet and looked to me, his brown eyes all bloodshot and crazed, and as I braced myself, I knew instantly that he was detoxing from whatever drug he was on.

"Shi-"I started to curse before he collided with me with such force it knocked me to the ground. I struggled to get him off me, but his grip was ridiculously strong. I grabbed his arm and attempted to press the pressure points but he grabbed me and threw me towards the wall, which knocked Sherlock back down to the ground too. As Rodgers lifted his leg to kick me while I was still down, I quickly took hold of it and twisted it with as much strength as I could muster. He let out a pain-filled roar before I attempted to tackle him to the ground, but as he struggled with me he managed to push me backwards towards the stairs.

Not knowing where Sherlock was or what state he was currently in, I used all of my strength to turn us both around so that Rodgers was closest to the stairs. We continued to struggle with one another until one heart-stopping moment when I felt both of us lose our balance and tip over. Rodgers and I instantly let go of each other, but I knew it was too late to stop myself from falling down the stairs with him, but then I suddenly felt a pair of hands grab me around my middle and pull me backwards away from the stairs as I heard the door burst open and Sherlock and I fell backwards onto the floor.

We both grunted in pain as I felt myself land hard on Sherlock's right arm that was still underneath me and we both laid still, Hopkins calling out to us.

"Are you okay?" he yelled from downstairs.

"Fine," Sherlock managed to say and I looked to him, his arm still underneath my back.

"You know, you do nothing to dispel these rumours…" I said lightly as Sherlock finally pulled out his arm from beneath me.

"What rumours?" he asked innocently and we both sat upright, examining ourselves to make sure nothing was broken.

"All I can say is that I'm glad Hopkins didn't see that, otherwise we would've never heard the end of it." I said, exchanging a quick grin with him as he laughed and got to his feet to hold out his hand, which I gratefully took.

We both peered over the railing to find three police officers attempting to hold a raging Rodgers down while Hopkins read him his rights.

"You don't have to say anything, but anything you do say may be used in court –"

"That bastard deserved it!" Rodgers suddenly yelled, knocking over one of the policeman over and I ran downstairs to help contain him. "He was asking too many questions – he acted as if he owned the place, the son-of-a –"

"Richard," said an upset voice and I looked to my left to find that Mrs Addison had emerged from her apartment and was watching tearfully from her doorway.

"He was going to leave you!" Rodgers yelled furiously and I noticed that Sherlock had also come downstairs to place an arm around the grandmother's shaking shoulders. "I heard him telling that cocky nurse, said he was going to move out and then where would you be, you stupid woman!"

"Oi!" said Hopkins angrily before adding to the police officers, "Get him into the car."

As one of the officers placed handcuffs on Rodgers, the other two lifted him and started to drag him out the door. I looked over to Sherlock, who still had his arm around Mrs Addison, and we exchanged a quick, sad look, feeling very sorry for the old woman.

"Why don't you go inside, Mrs Addison, and I will make you a cup of tea." Hopkins said gently. "I can explain what is mostly to happen now to you and your grandson, and what you can do for him to support him, if you'd like."

"Thank you inspector," she cried, letting go of Sherlock and heading back into her apartment.

"You know, I thought there might've been someone living in the attic." Hopkins said eventually and I saw Sherlock look to him surprised.

"How?" he asked him.

"Well, once you've eliminated the impossible…" he answered, letting the sentence hang and Sherlock gave him a smile.

"Be gentle with her, Detective Inspector," Sherlock said, glancing through Mrs Addison's door and I looked to him, feeling slightly taken aback by the care he was showing the older woman.

Hopkins gave a nod, obviously sharing my thoughts.

"Thank you for your help, I do appreciate it." He said to us both.

"You're welcome," I said while rubbing the back of my head where I could already feel a large lump rising.

"Until next time," Sherlock said enigmatically before he too walked out the front door and I gave Hopkins one last smile before following Sherlock out into the street and falling into step with him, wondering how long it would take for Sherlock to become bored again.

"Hungry?" I asked him.

"Famished," he replied. "I haven't eaten since Monday evening when Mrs Hudson bought up her lasagne."

"Sherlock," I complained and he gave me a warm smile.

LATER THAT NIGHT

A man in his mid-to-late twenties walked in the shadows of the Vauxhall Arches, his keen and alert eyes forever scanning his surroundings for figures lurking in the dark. He jumped in fright as he walked past a metal rubbish bin that moved as several rats scurried out of it in their haste to get away from him. He took a deep breath and told himself to get a grip, but in honesty, after what he had just gotten away from was enough to make anyone scared of walking in the shadows.

He came to a stop underneath one of the lights so he could get a glimpse of his watch; 11:59pm. He had arrived right on time. As he heard the sound of Big Ben chiming in the distance to announce that midnight had arrived, the man noticed a car roughly twenty metres in front of him turn their lights on and off five times in a row. That was his signal. He glanced behind him to make sure there was no one around before he advanced to the car and opened the back door on the driver's side before climbing in.

Apart from the driver, there was one other occupant in the car. He was a man of tall stature, and fairly lean and still looked reasonably fit for a man in his mid-fifties. He had auburn hair and blue eyes that were surrounded by crease lines that were probably caused by his job.

"How is she?" said the older man, who looked at the younger man with slight impatience in his eyes.

"She's in shock to say the least sir," the younger man said, with hints of disapproval in his voice. "Not that you can blame her, I can only guess half the things she was put through."

"Don't start Hardgraves," the older man snapped, placing a hand over his eyes. "Her brother has been hounding me about it since I became the Head of the organisation last year."

"Yeah, well, forgive me, sir, if I don't feel very sorry for you on this one." said the younger man, the one called Hardgraves. "She should never have been placed into that situation in the first place. Why do you think the Foreign Secretary got rid of your predecessor?"

The older man sighed. "But you got her out of there okay?"

"Yes sir," Hardgraves said gravely. "She will need one hell of a debriefing though."

"And she is with her brother now?"

"He's not letting her out of his sight, that's for sure."

"And what about Toshiaki Yamamoto?" the older man pressed. "Did she manage to bring him down?"

"Only just, sir," said Hardgraves quietly, the memory of what had happened still haunting him. "She managed to take down almost half of his elite guard by the time I had reached her, but Yamamoto put up a terrifying fight."

"Her cover was compromised?"

"I am assuming so, I just don't know how."

"Perhaps Yamamoto guessed after he saw English operatives storming his hideout." The older man said heavily. "I've seen the pictures of what his men did to Stevens before her, so I guess some could say she was lucky."

"Like I said before, she shouldn't have been forced into the situation in the first place." Hardgraves said sternly. "Anyway, it looks like only a few members managed to get away, but the authorities are going to keep a close eye on it now that they have names and descriptions. All I can say is at least it's all over."

The older man remained silent and Hardgraves looked to him angrily.

"What's happened now?"

"Scotland Yard pulled in a man using that drug this afternoon," The older man said quietly. "A young man called Richard Rodgers, I do believe, not that it is important. I have had an operative trailing the person we suspect to be the dealer for three months now. You and your new partner are going to have join him in the investigation."

Hardgraves made to protest, but his superior cut him off.

"No, Hardgraves, she is the best person for this; the knowledge she would have picked up these past three years is unequalled, she has to run this case whether she wants to or not. Bring her in to Vauxhall Cross tomorrow morning so we can begin her debrief. Then we can get her up to speed with this new threat and we can get the information she has to all operatives working in the region. I will send a car around to pick you both up six a.m. sharp."

Hardgraves shook his head in anger and made to get out of the car, but the other man grabbed his arm.

"I do not want her brother there, Hardgraves." He said firmly. "That is a direct order. Yes, he is invaluable to our organisation, but he is not needed in this case, is that clear?"

"Yes, sir." said Hardgraves eventually, wrenching his arm from the older man's grip and got out of the car, slamming the door shut and disappearing into the shadows of the Vauxhall Arches.

6


	9. Episode 2, Chapter 1

_**Author's note: Here it is, chapter one of episode two. I really hope you like this one; it's a bit more brutal and violent than the last one, so if anyone thinks that I should change the rating, just let me know. It's hard to know what to rate something when you write it. Anyway, enjoy!**_

* * *

The Case of Mistaken Identity, Chapter One: Rajesh Malik

Rajesh Malik walked around his small convenience store quietly giving the place one final check to make sure everything was in its place before leaving for the night. After triple-checking the safe that was fairly well hidden in the small back room was locked, he walked to the front of the store and flicked off the three separate light switches beside him before walking out the glass door and locking it behind him.

He gave a small, tired sigh as he walked across the street and glanced back to his shop and his home that was situated in the three levels above it. He had to admit that he had been incredibly lucky to get such a fantastic location in the heart of London, and at such a reasonable price. He had bought the business with the money his late father had left him, money that he had made from being one of India's best trauma surgeons. Rajesh knew that it would have been impossible for him to have bought the business without his father's money, and he planned to do a lot with his small business. He thought that London had very few shop-owners that were dependable and trustworthy, so that would be how he'd win over his customers. He knew that it would work, that it would _have_ to work, especially since the shop didn't look like the most inviting place in the world, but a refurbishment would have to wait until his home upstairs above the shop had been fully renovated. He felt that keeping his wife happy was the most important thing.

The renovations to the upper floors were the very reason why he was now walking away from his home. He and his wife were staying at a friend's place across the river a few streets away from Westminster Abbey, which was where he was currently headed, and at eleven o'clock the normally busy streets of London were uncharacteristically quiet. He thought as he walked that it may have had something to do with the cold, icy wind that was blowing harshly through the city, making him pull his coat tighter around him. It wasn't an overly long walk to his destination, only about half-an-hour, and he usually enjoyed it, but tonight he found himself wishing that he had taken a cab home, like his wife had so often begged him to do.

He walked around a corner and up some small stone steps into a large, public courtyard beside the Jubilee Gardens, the London Eye directly in front of him that was lit up more than a Christmas tree. He gave a small smile, thinking that no matter how many times he walked past London's most iconic landmarks he couldn't help but fall in love with London all over again.

It was when Rajesh had reached the middle of the square when he noticed movement to his right, over near the grass. He came to a hesitant stop when he saw three men surrounding a young Asian man who was visibly shaking.

"I don't know nothing about them, honest!" the young Asian man whispered frantically with a strong London accent as he struggled to break the grip of the two men holding him.

"He's lying," said the man to the Asian man's left. "I saw him with the girl."

"She's a university student," said the Asian man, his voice trembling now. "She's studying history or something, same with her boyfriend. They weren't asking 'bout you, I swear!"

"They've been 'round here a lot lately," said the one man with his back to Rajesh, with a deeper, more controlled voice.

"It's something about the old buildings near here, I dunno!"

"There's a very high chance that they could be spooks," said the man with the deeper voice. "But that's probably already occurred to you, ain't it?"

"Y-yes sir," said the young man.

"Boss," said one of the two men holding the boy and all three men looked to Rajesh, who took a few steps backwards.

"Evening," said the man with the deeper voice, who apparently was the _'boss_' who began to walk slowly towards Rajesh.

Rajesh remained silent, fear beginning to spread through his body. His basic survival instincts told him that he should turn and run, that what he was seeing had nothing to do with him, but he couldn't leave the poor young man in the situation that he was currently in.

"Leave the kid alone," Rajesh said his voice slightly higher than it normally was.

The man with the deeper voice laughed quietly as he continued to make his way towards Rajesh, who still couldn't make out the man's face.

"I hope you don' have anywhere to be," the man said seriously as he pulled something from his jacket pocket. "Because you are going to be a bit late…"

**-O-**

I sat in my usual chair beside the smouldering coal fireplace reading yesterday's newspaper and pulling my jumper closer around my neck as Sherlock Holmes – for some strange reason unbeknownst to me – leant over the pile of books and papers underneath the window opposite me and the noise from Baker Street below came through it, along with a bone chilling draft.

"Sherlock," I moaned in protest, looking at him over the top of the newspaper.

He was wearing his best, blue dressing gown, his white rubber gloves and his plastic safety goggles which all meant that he was in the middle of an experiment.

"You haven't got more eyes in the microwave have you?"

Sherlock ignored me as he strode back into the kitchen, making me shake my head slightly; I had grown pretty tired of disinfecting the microwave every time I wanted to use it.

I went back to scanning the newspaper, thinking that I needed to find my friend a new case, since he hadn't had a proper one for a month. He had been a part of small cases here and there, but he had turned most of them away due to the fact that they had been 'dull' or 'obvious', so the case of the 'Invisible Man' was the last thing to occupy his mind fully. As my eyes passed over a small story saying that the victim from our last case, Caleb Flynn, had finally gotten out of hospital, the fireplace beside me gave a sudden roar and a bright flash of white light.

I gave a cry of alarm and jumped up from my seat, cursing as I did so, to find Sherlock standing in front of me with an empty jug and the fire now blazing happily.

"Hmm," he said quietly with a frown. "Not enough fire retardant obviously."

"Obviously," I repeated angrily. "Sherlock, what the hell was that?"

"An experiment," he answered me simply and I glared at him.

"Would you mind not doing it again?" I asked hotly. "I don't think Mrs Hudson would appreciate having her roof blown off. And now that I think about it, neither would I!"

"I think you're over reacting, John." Sherlock said dismissively. "I knew what the reaction would be – more or less – and I needed to test a suspect's statement. Besides, you were cold and the fire was going out, I believe that is what they call a win-win situation."

"I was only cold _after_ you opened the bloody window." I said in a somewhat grumpy manner as I sat back down in my chair and I noticed a smirk pass briefly over Sherlock's face before he closed the window and took his phone out of his dressing gown pocket to type quickly then replaced it again.

"Lestrade," I said to him, wondering who he was helping out now.

"No, Dimmock," he answered, disappearing back into the kitchen as I frowned at the tall flames that were now engulfing the coal in the fireplace, wondering what Sherlock's experiment had been for. A few moments later my phone that was resting on the arm of my chair began to ring loudly. After glancing briefly at the name on the screen, I called to Sherlock before answering.

"Greg, how have you been?" I asked into the phone as Sherlock came and sat down in his chair opposite me, taking off his safety goggles to look to me expectantly.

"_I've been trying to get a hold of Sherlock for half-an-hour_," Lestrade told me impatiently over the phone. "_He's had his phone switched off._"

"Yeah, he's just finished some kind of experiment," I told Lestrade apologetically. "He's here now; do you want to talk to him?"

"_Please_,"

I handed my mobile phone across to Sherlock and watched him as he spoke to Detective Inspector Lestrade. He didn't say overly much, but I knew from his expression and the slight gleam in his eyes that Lestrade had an interesting case up his sleeve, and I couldn't be more grateful.

"We'll be right there," Sherlock insisted into the phone. "No, don't send a car, we'll take a cab." He added before throwing my phone back to me.

"Good case is it?" I asked as Sherlock jumped to his feet and ran into his bedroom, throwing his safety goggles and thick rubber gloves aside then pulling off his dressing gown.

"A man was found murdered in his shop." He called from his bedroom.

"In a shop," I repeated, turning in my chair to look at him whilst he pulled on his suit jacket with a frown on my face; it didn't sound like anything out of the ordinary.

"Yes, his locked-from-the-inside shop!" he grinned at me, grabbing his overcoat from behind his door. "C'mon!"

I quickly got up and retrieved my own jacket and followed Sherlock quickly down the stairs and out into the cold of Baker Street. Sherlock hailed a cab and we both climbed in from the footpath, Sherlock climbing across the seat to sit on the other side. He gave the address and the cabby pulled away from 221B.

"So, where are we going?" I asked, looking across to Sherlock.

"Belvedere Road, I believe it's only a street or two away from the London Eye." He told me.

"And it's murder?"

"Allegedly quite a violent one at that." he answered quietly. "But I will hold off on any judgement or speculation until I see the scene myself."

"Naturally," I said, knowing how my friend worked.


	10. Episode 2, Chapter 2

The Case of Mistaken Identity, Chapter Two; The Locked Shop

We arrived at our destination twenty minutes later to find half of the street cordoned off by the Met. As Sherlock jumped out of the cab before it had even stopped, I gave the cabby his fare quickly before I got out and followed Sherlock towards Sergeant Sally Donovan, who looked at my friend with a very sour expression on her face.

"Hat-man and Robin have _finally_ arrived, sir." Donovan said into her walkie-talkie.

"_Bring them in Donovan – Oh, and try to be nice_!" I heard Lestrade answer and I smiled at her loathsome expression.

"Good morning, Sally!" Sherlock said cheerfully, having obviously heard Lestrade's comment over the radio.

"We really don't need you here, freak." She said to him curtly.

"Then why did I get an invite?" Sherlock asked her in mock confusion. "Although I am sure that you and Anderson think that you can handle all of the crime scenes that you ever come across considering all the late nights that you spend together, DI Lestrade obviously thinks otherwise. Speaking of the late nights, _has_ Anderson's wife caught on yet?"

"Just go through," Donovan snapped angrily and Sherlock grinned and held the crime scene tape up for the both of us to walk under.

"Talk soon, Sally," Sherlock said lightly, giving her a wave before we walked towards the building that was at the centre of all the police cars.

"You enjoy that, don't you?" I asked him, smiling crookedly. "Tormenting her, I mean."

Sherlock gave me a quick smile and I laughed at him, shaking my head. Just ahead of us, Lestrade walked out onto the footpath, looking around to see us approaching and giving a small smile.

"Good, you've made it." He said and I picked up on a bit of relief in his voice. "So the story so far is –"

"No information, please Lestrade." Sherlock said firmly as he bent over to look very closely at the ground in front of us with his small magnifying glass.

Lestrade looked to me and I gave him a slight smile before I too had a quick look at our surroundings. We stood in front of a long building which spanned almost half the street. It looked as though it were an old building, which wasn't unexpected for this part of London. Along the street level was mostly cafés more than anything else, as well as a real estate agent, a small picture gallery and one of those tourist shops that sold London bags and key chains and the likes up the other end of the street. Directly in front of us though was what looked like a small, independent food store that had a very old sign reading 'grocer' above the door. I looked up above the weathered sign to see three more levels above us, where presumably the owners of the shops either lived or rented out the space.

"Here," Lestrade said, handing me one of the blue forensic suits before shooting Sherlock a quick, hopeful glance.

"Not a chance," I said quietly, pulling on the blue suit over the top of my clothes and took two hairnet-like-devices that covered my shoes from out of the car boot behind me.

Lestrade gave a reluctant nod of acceptance while watching Sherlock, then after a few moments, he waved me inside. I followed him in silence through the front door, which had a bell above it to announce our presence and I felt Sherlock close behind me. Lestrade moved to the side and Sherlock moved in front of me, his keen eyes passing over practically everything.

To my right beside Lestrade was the front counter upon which sat the cash register and an assortment of cheap lollies and chocolates. The till was open and empty, but to me it didn't seem as though it had been forced. To my left was shelves filled with chip packets, biscuits and more lollies that looked as though someone had searched through them and the whole room was incredibly dark, and even with the lights on Sherlock had retrieved his torch from his jacket.

"Where is the body?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"On the other side of the shelf in the corner." directed Lestrade and Sherlock and I walked to the end of the shelving and turned left to find Anderson photographing an Indian man who was in a bad way. He had dark bruises all over the exposed parts of his body and blood covering most of his clothes. He was lying flat on his back and his eyes were half open, probably due to the fact that they were swollen.

"Bloody hell," I whispered as Anderson turned around from the body to look up to us.

"I have this scene perfectly under control, thank you very much!" he complained loudly as he got angrily to his feet.

"Shut up and stop whining, Anderson." Sherlock snapped, moving a few steps closer to the body before he knelt beside the poor sod. "What do you think, John?"

I moved to where Anderson had been moments before and looked over the body. Now that I was much closer to the victim, I could see the true extent of his wounds. He had undoubtedly been beaten over a decent length of time and what I could see it wasn't just on his face. Blood stained the man's white shirt that was consistent with it soaking through so I assumed that he had wounds on his chest and abdomen. There were abrasions on the man's forearms and the back of his hands which I thought could've been defensive wounds. The wounds on his head were probably the worst that I could see; He had a broken nose and jaw, possible fractures of his cheek bones and most of the skull, but that wasn't what would have killed him. On his leg I saw a slit in the man's trousers, so very delicately I lifted the blood-soaked trouser leg and saw an extremely deep incision on the inside of his leg.

"Well," Sherlock pressed and I looked across to him.

"I would estimate time-of-death at around three o'clock this morning perhaps." I told him after glancing down to my watch.

"Three-thirty," Anderson said promptly. "That's what _our_ medical examiner said."

"Good for him," Sherlock said impatiently. "What else?" he added to me.

"These wounds were inflicted over a couple of hours at least."

"How can you tell?" Lestrade asked me.

"Because your victim's got bruising and swelling, this is part of the healing process when you are alive." I explained. "There are distinct differences between these and post mortem bruising."

Lestrade gave me a quick nod before Sherlock pressed me further.

"Anything more?" he said.

"Broken nose, fractured skull, defence wounds on his hands and forearms." I told him, my eyes passing over the dead man again. "Cause of death I would assume to be the incision on the left leg, and judging by all of the blood, the murderer got the femoral artery."

"A very apt conclusion, John," Sherlock said approvingly.

"Really?" I asked, raising my eyebrows in surprise.

"Oh yes," he smiled. "Although you missed everything that could lead us to the killer, but seeing as you are a medical man, your conclusions were fine."

"I sighed, shaking my head as I got back to my feet. "What did I miss then?" I asked slowly with a tired voice.

"I'm glad you asked," he said happily to me with another smile.

"Of course you are," I said dully.

"All of your conclusions were correct, John; cause of death was certainly the incision on his left leg which in itself means that the killer has some notion of anatomy or – by the standards of today, watches any number of the _terrible_ crime drama's on television these days. Our victim has obviously had to endure at least three hours of being beaten by a single person and the majority was not done here, but somewhere else."

"Not here?" asked Lestrade quickly with a frown.

"Mmm," Sherlock confirmed with a nod.

"I bet this is a racial crime," Anderson said suddenly and everyone looked over to him wearing frowns.

"And what evidence have you seen to lead you to that frankly ridiculous conclusion?" Sherlock asked somewhat angrily.

"Well, he's Indian," Anderson said slowly.

"If your victim was Caucasian would you automatically suspect a negro?"

"Well, no –"

"Good, now shut up and stop inflicting your alarmingly wrong suspicions on the rest of us!" Sherlock snapped. "No, the motive isn't going to be obvious in this case, look at how the victim dresses; plain jeans, comfortable shirt and shoes, he isn't _traditionally_ what you would expect from a young Indian man and there is no trace of any religious artefacts in the whole shop. If fact, if it were going to be a racial crime, Anderson, it would be because of these facts, but it isn't!"

"Okay, Sherlock, you've made your point," I said, attempting to keep him on topic because I knew how much Anderson worked him up. "How do you know that what happened to the victim started somewhere else?"

"Blood on his shoes and pants," Sherlock stated, after finally looking away from Anderson, whom he'd been glaring at. "Directional blood drops, the blood being most likely from his nose as he was made to walk back to his shop. There was a small amount of blood on the path out the front, but all you apes have trampled all over it, as you do!"

I looked across to Lestrade as Anderson quickly left the room as if to see if Sherlock was telling the truth or not.

"Now that I managed to get the idiot out of the way, we can actually have a decent conversation." Sherlock mumbled as he stood up straight again.

"Did you just make that up?" Lestrade accused angrily.

"No," Sherlock said, turning his angry expression towards Lestrade now. "Just in front of the door, a few drops of blood where the victim stopped to unlock the door. Nobody thought to look there because I assume that everyone thought that the man was abused here. Stupid mistake."

"Oh really?" asked Lestrade hotly.

"Yes," Sherlock said. "Where is the evidence to suggest that the attack occurred entirely here?"

I saw Lestrade look around the room uncertainly before looking back to a satisfied Sherlock.

"Exactly, there isn't any." He said confidently. "Where, for example, is the cast off spray on the walls and ceiling? The _lack_ of evidence is just as important, Lestrade, it tells us that the beating occurred elsewhere, a place I will find by tracing the blood trail, and trust me, there is going to be one. First though, I need to finish looking around here."

"Who found the body?" I asked Lestrade as Sherlock moved over to the counter.

"His wife," Lestrade told me sadly and I shook my head.

"Newlyweds?" I pondered looking back down to the victim and guessing that he was only in his mid-twenties.

"I would have said three months," Sherlock said before he disappeared down behind the counter. "Honeymoon in Paris."

Lestrade rolled his eyes before Anderson walked back in to stand beside him with a frown.

"He was right, sir," Anderson said begrudgingly. "I've made everyone else aware of it now –"

"No point now," Sherlock said frankly, still hidden behind the counter. "You could never use it as evidence in court. Nope, as a senior scene of crime officer that's a _big_ mistake on your behalf."

Anderson glared in Sherlock's general direction. "I'm not the first person on the scene."

"No, but you are the first _forensic_ person to arrive, Anderson." Sherlock said as he stood up to stare forcefully at the forensic investigator. "Isn't it one of your first duties to _access_ the point of entry in case there is any significant data?"

"Lay off, Sherlock." I said warningly. "We're here as guests remember?"

"Dull," I heard him mutter as he walked around the room, the three of us watching him in silence. He walked to the opposite end of the store where he quickly opened a door before he finally came to stand beside us again.

"Thoughts on the case then," I asked curiously. "Can you talk us through it?"

"It wasn't a robbery," he begun in his usual quiet, thoughtful manner. "Nothing has been disturbed in the shop save the shelves at the entry where our victim collapsed when he first came back in. The till is predictably empty and the safe in the back room hasn't been touched. The victim's wedding ring is still on his finger, he has a gold chain around his neck and his phone, wallet and keys have all gone unnoticed in his trouser pockets.

"The blood on the pavement at the door, together with the stains on the victim's shoes and trousers _plus _the lack of blood on his hands suggest that he was not in his shop but somewhere out on the street when he was attacked. He had obviously closed the shop for the night and was about to walk home."

"Doesn't he live above us?" I asked him confused.

"No," Sherlock answered quickly. "Judging by the state of the walls, the ceiling and the fact that some of the windows have been boarded up upstairs, I would say that the flat is being renovated and he's been living elsewhere until the work had been finished. No, if someone had of been upstairs they would have heard the victim crying out in agony. I can't help but think that the attack wouldn't have happened if he hadn't had to walk home every night, last night included –"

"Oh come on," Anderson scoffed. "How could you possible know that he _walks_ home?"

"His shoes – brand new, only a week or so old." Sherlock said quickly, pointing down to the victim's feet. "Comfortable, everyday shoes, that offer enough support to stand in them all day yet look at the soles, they're practically worn away already which meant he did a lot of walking in them. Now, why else could the soles become that worn in such a short period of time unless he walks to and from work?"

I saw Anderson shift uncomfortably as he glared at Sherlock, who looked up to the ceiling.

"I need to look upstairs," he said quietly.

"Why?" asked Lestrade with a confused frown.

"The front door was locked and barred shut from the inside by the small magazine rack, hence the reason why police had to force it open this morning when they arrived, so how did our murderer leave?" Sherlock asked with his eyebrows raised, but he didn't pause for an answer from any of us. "Our victim certainly couldn't have locked it, and the only windows in the room are at the front of the store and don't open and the back room doesn't have any windows or doors either, which is presumably why the victim kept his safe in there. The only other exit, therefore, is this one here that I would assume leads upstairs into the house and what do we all notice about it?"

Lestrade, Anderson and I all looked over to the door that Sherlock now stood beside it, giving it a quick tug that didn't open it.

"It's just your average door," Anderson said sulkily.

"I really wish you wouldn't voice your thoughts out loud, Anderson." Sherlock sighed.

"There's no lock," I said suddenly as I looked to the silver handle.

"Exactly," Sherlock said with a smile. "That must mean that the door locks from the other side, making a perfect escape route. John, help me break down the door."

"You can't just –"

"Be quiet, Anderson," Lestrade sighed wearily as he gave a small nod to me and I moved forward to Sherlock's side, Anderson shaking his head angrily.

Together we managed to kick in the not-very-sturdy door without causing too much mess and as I moved the bulk of the door to the side, Sherlock knelt down with his magnifying glass and began examining the steps very closely.

"Recent footmarks on the stairs which could have only come from our killer," he said quietly.

"How can you tell?"

"There was a bloody footprint over beside the body where I was standing; size eleven trainer," Sherlock explained quietly to me without looking up. "These footmarks are roughly the same size and shape."

"They could have belonged to our victim," Lestrade suggested. "Or even the builders who were renovating upstairs."

"Our victim has a men's size nine foot and his shoes are a completely different shape." Sherlock said shortly. "These marks are nothing like a workman's boot either, not to mention the fact that yesterday was Sunday and no workmen would be on a job on a Sunday and the marks themselves couldn't be in such pristine conditions if they had been left on Friday afternoon. They were undoubtedly left by the killer."

We followed Sherlock up the narrow staircase and along the dusty, half-finished corridor towards the back of the house where a single window was situated in the wall. Sherlock instantly converged on it with his magnifying glass to, I assumed, check for fingerprints. I watched him go over every inch of the window, frame and all, before he turned back to us smiling.

"Anderson, there are at least twenty-five usable fingerprints on that window, inside and out that could be from the killer. Concentrate your fingerprint powder on the ones around frame, the rest will most likely be contaminated by the workmen. Let me know when you have the results from the fingerprint department. C'mon, John,"

"Where are you going?" Anderson asked as Sherlock began to push past up.

"To follow the blood," he said without stopping and I exchanged a quick look with Lestrade before hurrying after him.

* * *

_**Author's note; It is actually quite fun to tease Anderson and Donovan; they really do bring it on themselves. Anyway, hopefully you enjoyed the chapter, and please, please, PLEASE let me know what you thought on Sherlock's deductions! You'll help me to become a better writer if you give me feedback. All I want to do is do these characters justice!**_


	11. Episode 2, Chapter 3

_**Author's note: Sorry for the delay, uni seems to do that to you. Hope you enjoy :P**_

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The Case of Mistaken Identity, Chapter Three; Following the Trail

After I had pulled off the ever-attractive blue forensic coveralls I joined Sherlock in the middle of the cordoned off street where he was hunched over trying to locate more blood. Lestrade soon joined us and Sherlock (who seemed to have been waiting for the detective inspector) rushed off down the street. Lestrade and I followed at a small distance, keeping our eyes on him in case we had to save him from any moving vehicles.

"God, I haven't even asked what the victim's name was!" I realised suddenly as we walked, feeling ashamed with myself. I had been so eager for Sherlock to get another case it had completely slipped my mind.

"Rajesh Malik," Lestrade told me quietly. "Sherlock was pretty much right about everything, which is no surprise really. He was well liked; no one had a bad thing to say about him. He's only been married three months and it was his poor wife who had called the police because she could see his feet through one of the windows…"

I gave a sad sigh as we walked around the corner, the London Eye coming into view from the opposite side of a large square that was busy with well-dressed, local workers and casual tourists with their cameras, all completely unaware that a man lay dead around the corner.

"Where's he gone?" Lestrade asked me suddenly, squinting into the crowd.

"Over there," I answered pointing to the middle of the square to where Sherlock had just barged through a small group of tourist who all looked to him frowning. I shook my head and quickly made my way over to him in time to hear the group speaking angrily in German as they moved away.

"That was polite," I said sarcastically as Sherlock bent down on one knee and pulled out his magnifying glass again.

"This is where it started," Sherlock said quietly and I looked to the ground around us and saw distinct traces of blood on the white concrete. "And besides, they were standing in my evidence."

I raised my eyebrows and looked to him feeling slightly amused at the sourness in his voice before he rose and moved away from Lestrade and I, still half bent as he walked to study the ground. He stopped not too far from us between a park bench and a rubbish bin and knelt back down before calling to us.

"There's more blood here,"

We moved to him and found a small pool of dried in front of Sherlock behind the bin that was out of the way from normal foot-traffic. Behind that were blood smears and a few bloodied footprints.

"So it all started here?" I asked, Sherlock remaining on the ground, now facing away from us looking over to the fence that separated the square and the Jubilee Gardens.

"No, this is separate," Sherlock said quietly. "This is the reason why our victim was murdered. While he was walking home he saw something that he shouldn't have. Has anything been reported to police, Lestrade?"

"Hang on, I'll check." He said getting his mobile phone from his jacket pocket and putting it to his ear as he walked away from us slightly. "Hopkins – are you at the Yard? Has anything been reported at the London Eye in the last twelve hours?"

"It is vital that I learn what –"Sherlock began to say as he stood back up, but he stopped mid-sentence.

"Sherlock?" I asked, noticing that his pale eyes were focused on something directly behind me. I turned around to see what had caught his eye and I noticed that a young woman – who didn't look a day over eighteen – had stopped walking and stood directly over to us – or rather – directly at Sherlock. I glanced back to my friend and found a peculiar expression on his face that I couldn't quite read, but his eyes were fixed upon this girl.

Intrigued, I looked back to her to quickly take in her appearance; she had long, straight, black hair and a small and somewhat familiar face that I couldn't seem to place and I couldn't really remark on any detail in particular since she was too far away from me. She wore a navy beret on her head, a grey woollen jumper, tight, black jeans and she carried a grey book bag over her left shoulder.

A young man who was possibly in his late twenties walked up beside her and glanced over in our direction briefly before taking hold of her left hand to pull her slowly away towards the London Eye. She looked back to Sherlock (who's gaze had never left her) and gave him a small, sad smile before she allowed the man to put his right arm around her shoulders as they walked away.

I looked enquiringly back to Sherlock, who was still looking at the young woman's retreating back.

"Who was that?" I asked with a frown.

"Who was who?" Sherlock said hastily after clearing his throat and looking anywhere but at me.

"Oh, you know, that girl who you just had a staring competition with." I said lightly, still watching him closely.

"I have no idea what you are going on about, John." Sherlock said roughly, turning away from me.

"What have I missed?" said Lestrade as he moved back to us, his eyes moving from me to Sherlock.

"Only Sherlock making eyes at a pretty girl," I said casually, Lestrade looking quickly back to me.

"Really?" he asked, sounding surprised.

"Mmm," I answered. "I didn't know he had it in him,"

"I really wasn't, you know." Sherlock said sounding annoyed and still refusing to look at me.

"Course not," I grinned, before adding somewhat confidently, "And you don't deny that she was pretty!"

Sherlock glared at me for a few moments, his way of telling me that I had touched a nerve, before he looked to Lestrade, who seemed just as amused as I was.

"Any reports?" he asked angrily.

"None," Lestrade answered, his smile fading as the conversation turned back to that of the case. "But I have told some of my boys to come here so we can cordon off the area and have a proper look round."

"Good," Sherlock said. "While you do that, John and I will go around to the wife's place, see if there's anything to learn there. What's the address?"

"It's sixty-one Charlwood Street in Pimlico," Lestrade said, referring to his notes.

"Let me know the moment you find anything important." Sherlock said as he began to move away towards the London Eye.

"Just try to remember that his wife is _not_ a suspect, Sherlock!" Lestrade called after us in an afterthought as I quickly ran after Sherlock.

"Isn't she?" Sherlock called back to tease the Detective Inspector.

-O-

Sherlock and I sat awkwardly on a two-seater sofa looking to a pale, blonde woman sitting on the sofa opposite us as she looked down to her knees, her hands twisting uncomfortably.

"He was a good man, Mr Holmes." Liz Malik said, her thick Londoner accent shaking violently.

"How long have you known each other?" I asked gently, wondering if we should have been there at all so soon after her husband's death.

"Ten years," she said, looking up to me with watery eyes. "We met in high school on his first day; it only took him five years to pluck up the courage to ask me out on a date!"

"He moved schools, then?" I said, giving her a warm smile.

Liz nodded. "Rajesh was from India originally, but his mother was a Londoner. She brought him back over here; neither of his parents were very traditional, but his father stayed in India for his work. Rajesh's mum died about three years after they moved back here, so he lived with his English grandparents, then last year his dad died too; lung cancer."

"And that was when you bought your new place?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"Rajesh inherited a lot from his dad, so he started his own business." Liz told him. "It was all going really well…"

"What time did he normally close at night?" Sherlock pressed.

"On a Sunday, normally eight o'clock, but last night he said he wanted to stay back and get the back room ready for a big stock delivery this Thursday. He called me at ten-to-eleven to say that he had just finished and was about to walk to here. I told him to take a cab, but he wouldn't hear of it."

Sherlock's phone suddenly beeped loudly in his pocket, announcing the arrival of a text message and he quickly glanced at it, rolled his eyes, before replacing it and looking back to Liz, a hard expression on his face now that I didn't think was directed at her.

"Did he always walk home that late?" Sherlock said and I frowned at the harshness in his voice. He saw this and readjusted his expression to a more passive one.

"Always," Liz confirmed, she too frowning at my friend. "Sometimes he'd be out walking later than that too. He always refused to take a cab; he loved the city with all the lights on at night, so sometimes he'd wait until it got dark to leave, even if it was pouring with rain or snowing."

"And he always took the same route?" Sherlock pressed her.

Again Liz nodded. "He always walked through the square in front of the London Eye then across Westminster Bridge; always."

Sherlock nodded and remained silent for a few moments before he stood up and looked down to Liz.

"Thank you for your time, you have been most helpful." He said slowly, the hard expression returning as he walked out from the room.

After apologising for Sherlock's abrupt nature and again offering my deepest condolences for her husband's death, I too left the sitting room and walked out into the hallway and out onto the street, closing the door behind me, to find that Sherlock had already pulled over a black cab.

"We've been summoned," Sherlock said darkly as I approached him.

"I didn't expect Lestrade to find something so quickly." I said surprised.

"It isn't Lestrade," he said in a somewhat sulky manner.

"Who then," I pondered.

"Mycroft," he answered before getting into the cab.

"Mycroft," I repeated questioningly as I climbed into the cab after him, wondering why on earth Mycroft Holmes would be summoning us and why Sherlock had accepted after only one text message. Normally, if Mycroft wanted anything from Sherlock, Mycroft would literally have to force him to have anything to do with it. Like the affair with the Bruce-Partington plans, which Sherlock made me investigate and interview Mycroft. Then there was the disaster with The Woman, where Mycroft struggled to get even Sherlock to put some clothes on. No, there was obviously something serious going on for Sherlock to agree to meet his brother like this.

"What was in the text?" I asked him as the cab pulled out into traffic.

Sherlock didn't reply; he stared out the window of the cab, his face in a deep, thoughtful frown and he remained like this for the rest of the short journey to the Houses of Parliament, where as soon as the cab stopped, he paid the cabby his fair and leapt out the door to walk away quickly. I thanked the cabby and quickly tried to catch up with Sherlock, who continued to walk quickly along the pavement without so much as a word to me the whole time.


	12. Episode 2, Chapter 4

_**Author's Note: Okay, so I am quite nervous about this chapter. I am introducing and OC of sorts into the story, which I will go on to explain at the end of this chapter. Enjoy and talk soon!**_

* * *

The Case of Mistaken Identity, Chapter four: A Surprising Discovery

We made our way silently around the tall boundary fence, past the ever-long line of tourists waiting to get into Westminster Abbey on the opposite side of the road and headed towards the back entrance to the Houses of Parliament, where we were briefly stopped the police guards before they allowed us entry. A few minutes later, we had reached Mycroft's door and Sherlock, without a moment's hesitation or consideration; he opened the door and strode into the office.

Mycroft sat at his desk with his good looking brown-haired assistant standing beside him holding out some folders that Mycroft had obviously been looking through. They both looked up to us, startled momentarily before Mycroft gave a small smile.

"Ah, good afternoon brother," Mycroft said, before adding to me, "John."

I watched as he glanced quickly down to his watch.

"My, you arrived quicker than I had expected, were you in the area?" he asked pleasantly.

"We were only a couple of streets away," I told him after it became apparent that Sherlock wasn't going to answer his brother.

"Mmm, so I've heard." Mycroft said, still smiling despite Sherlock's murderous glare. "Been keeping busy over at the London Eye?"

"How long?" asked Sherlock quietly and I looked to him, startled when I heard deep anger within his voice.

Mycroft's smile faded and he looked seriously to his younger brother.

"Ask her yourself," he said softly.

The door behind us suddenly clicked shut, causing both Sherlock and I to turn around to find the young woman that we saw at the London Eye earlier standing silently, having obviously been concealed by the door that I had left open.

Now that she was closer, I was able to make out more details than before in the square. The first thing that I noticed was her almost grey eyes were fixed upon Sherlock. They were accentuated by her perfectly pale skin, her dark, almost black, straight hair and thin eyebrows. She had high cheekbones but they weren't as pronounced as someone like Sherlock's, her lips were a soft, pale pink, she wore little makeup and her clothes were in immaculate condition, she stood roughly my height, if not a bit taller, and quite slim. As I looked back to her face and noticed her troubled expression and her deeply perturbed eyes, I wondered if she was older than I had originally estimated before. She looked as though she had been through a lot in her life, and even seemed a little fractured – not unlike someone who had seen the effects of war first hand. In all honesty, I thought she looked like how I felt after coming back from Afghanistan.

"Hello Sherlock," the young woman said softly with hints of deep emotions stirring underneath her steady voice.

I looked back to Sherlock on my left and found him looking at the woman with a look of dismay on his face. It wasn't obvious, and I felt that only someone who really knew him well (which weren't that many people) would have noticed it. Apparently this young woman _did_ know him quite well because she looked down to her feet after seeing his expression with a sunken expression on her own face.

"You've changed a lot in three years." Sherlock said eventually and a hurt expression flashed across her face.

_Surely_, I thought with a confused frown, _she couldn't be an ex-girlfriend_. The only woman who had managed to have this kind of effect on Sherlock had been Irene Adler and I hoped that she wasn't anything like her…

"No Sherlock, I grew up." The young woman answered him quietly.

I watched as they stared stubbornly at each other for a few moments before she glanced over to me, a small, weak smile on her pale face now.

"You must be Dr. Watson," she said, holding out her right hand to shake mine. "I've heard quite a bit about you from Mycroft."

I gave her a small, unsure smile and looked back to Mycroft questioningly, not having the faintest idea as to what was going on.

"Really," I asked, "Why would he do that?"

The girl frowned, looking accusingly back to Sherlock, who avoided her gaze.

"Didn't even tell your best friend?" she whispered hotly before looking back to me again. "Well, forgive me for not introducing myself sooner, I would have thought it unnecessary, but… My name is Anthea; I am the youngest Holmes sibling."

I stared at her for a few moments, my mouth hanging open slightly in surprise. I hadn't been expecting it, that was for certain, but I could now definitely see the resemblance between her and her brothers, especially Sherlock. That, in a way, explained why I had a nagging suspicion that I recognised her earlier, but what really got me was that Sherlock didn't tell me who she was. In fact, he had never mentioned her in the whole twelve months that I had known him.

"Hang on," I said suddenly, turning around to look at Mycroft's assistant. "When Mycroft _kidnapped_ and we first met, you told me that _your_ name was Anthea."

The assistant's eyes widen as Mycroft, Sherlock and the _real_ Anthea looked enquiringly to her.

"Did I?" she asked me nervously as I nodded in response. "Oh… I'll go and bring in the tea then sir?" she added to Mycroft, who nodded, and then quickly left the room.

"You must have caught her off guard, John." Mycroft said silkily as Anthea moved around the table to stand beside him on his right.

"Yeah, well she did spend the entire trip texting." I said heatedly.

"Emailing, I would imagine." Mycroft said smoothly after exchanging a quick glance with Anthea. "From memory, that was an extremely busy time for us; I assume she must have come up with my sister's name from one of the numerous messages she was replying to for me."

"Right," I said slowly, before adding in a slightly disbelieving tone; "You're their sister?"

"It's hard to believe isn't it?" she said with a slight smile. "I like to think I was a genetic throwback."

I gave a small laugh but soon stopped at the sight of Sherlock's hostile expression that was aimed at his siblings.

"In answer to your earlier question, Sherlock," Anthea continued quietly. "I have been back in London a month."

"And where have you been?" Sherlock asked her moodily.

"Travelling," she answered him lightly but didn't meet his eyes.

"Travelling where?" he demanded loudly.

"I can't tell you that Sherlock." She said in a low whisper. Sherlock's eyes narrowed on hers before he glared across to Mycroft, who managed to look calmly back to him.

"But I haven't called you here to play _catch-up_, Sherlock." Mycroft stated.

"Of course you didn't." Sherlock said spitefully, making Anthea wince slightly.

"I wanted to know why you were over at the London Eye this morning." Anthea told him calmly.

"You could have called," Sherlock said and I wondered what exactly he was referring to; her travelling or her question. "I was just following up a possible lead, you?"

"The same as you," she told him. "You know what MI5 are like."

"MI5?" he asked sounding genuinely surprised.

"I'm on loan from MI6," Anthea said. "So is my partner."

"Yes, I noticed your _partner_." Sherlock said sourly, watching his younger sister very closely. "Isn't that kind of thing frowned upon? Very 007, is that what you are now?"

I shook my head as colour rose in Anthea's cheeks, wishing that I hadn't made Sherlock watch all the Bond films after I discovered that he failed to get the reference that his brother was making on his 'plane-of-the-dead.'

"What is your current case, Sherlock?" she asked strongly, but Sherlock just stared stubbornly at her and I knew that he wasn't going to answer her. "What is your case?"

Sherlock remained silent, causing Anthea to shake her head.

"Okay, I understand that you want answers, but I am afraid that I can't give you any."

"It's alright Anthea, you don't need to be afraid, just tell me." Sherlock smiled sarcastically as Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"Official Secrets Act," Anthea said charmingly. "Perhaps you could read it sometime?"

"Dull," Sherlock stated.

"Isn't it just," Anthea laughed before receiving a disapproving glance from Mycroft that made Sherlock smile.

"Anyway," Anthea continued after clearing her throat uncomfortably. "I can understand if you don't wish to discuss your case with me, but I do wish to make a request."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows curiously.

"Stay away from the London Eye and the Jubilee Gardens," she said to him with a surprising seriousness to her voice that I hadn't been expecting. Sherlock opened his mouth to no doubt argue, but Anthea cut across him. "Please, Sherlock." She added softly.

I watched him as his eyes narrowed yet again, almost as if he was trying to work out what his sister's game was.

"Why?" he asked.

Anthea gave a frustrated sigh and looked to the ground with one hand moving to her hip.

"I told you he wouldn't listen," Mycroft said somewhat childishly and Anthea gave him a glare that was worthy of one of Sherlock's most irritated (which was usually aimed at Anderson) before she walked back around the desk to stand in front of Sherlock.

"I know that you are angry at me for leaving," she said quietly, looking to Sherlock with earnest eyes. "I honestly don't blame you for it. If the tables were turned and it had of been you who left for three years overseas without saying goodbye – well, I certainly wouldn't be happy with you when you did finally come back. It just… all happened so quickly…" she finished, looking painfully away.

"What happened?" Sherlock pressed in a hushed voice, as though he didn't want Mycroft and me to hear him.

"A case," Anthea whispered back, her voice trembling ever-so-slightly, which made Sherlock glare furiously across to Mycroft, who returned the angry look. "A different case to that I am working on now, please do not ask me again. I cannot – and will not – tell you, there is far too much at stake."

I saw her look defiantly up into Sherlock's eyes and I heard the determination in her voice, yet as I quickly glanced down to her shaking hands I knew that whatever her case overseas had been it had been traumatic and that she was trying desperately hard to hide it from Sherlock now.

"Please Sherlock," she continued. "I am asking for you and Dr. Watson to stay away from –"

"We can't," Sherlock suddenly stated, turning away from all of us.

"But –"

"No, it's far too fascinating for me to just abandon it." He continued over her attempted interruption. "Besides, if I leave the case now it will remain unsolved, you know what Scotland Yard are like."

"Don't make me beg you," Anthea said, her eyes flashing angrily. "You can still be involved with the case, just do it over the phone. I don't want you there Sherlock, why can't you just listen to me for once?"

"Listen to you?" he repeated, turning to face us again and I was surprised to find him looking so angry. "You haven't given us any justifications for me to want to listen to you, why should I do what you say?"

Anthea looked at him and I could see that his words had hurt her.

"Because you are meant to trust me," she said quietly and they gazed at each other for a few moments before they both looked away at the same time. She took a moment to compose herself before she looked to me again.

"It was a pleasure meeting you Dr. Watson," she said earnestly, holding out her soft hand to shake mine. "Hopefully next time we meet I may get the chance to get to know you better."

I gave her a small smile, feeling a bit overwhelmed still.

"I will talk to you again in the next few of days, when it's safe." She added to Mycroft in a tone much harsher than what she had used on me.

"Good luck," Mycroft said quietly and Anthea gave a small nod before she looked again to Sherlock, who refused to make eye contact. She took a deep breath, giving her head a slight shake, and walked out the door, closing it loudly.

A few moments of awkward silence followed before Sherlock turned to look across to Mycroft furiously.

"On loan from MI6 is she?" he asked spitefully.

"Anthea has become one of the most sought after field operatives in the job, Sherlock; she is very good at what she does." Mycroft said calmly.

"Since when did Anthea work in the field? Since when did our sister become involved in overseas cases?" Sherlock asked angrily. "I thought she was only there to make sense of the gathered intelligence, not to do the gathering!"

"Since her skills and intelligence were noticed by someone high up in the organisation, obviously." Mycroft retorted coolly.

"Someone like you, perhaps?" Sherlock snapped, glaring furiously at his older brother, which gave me the strongest impression that he didn't approve of his younger sibling's profession. "I mean, it's quite a leap for someone who had only been working for an organisation like MI6 for only two years to be promoted over to Asia without a little inside help."

"It wasn't me, Sherlock." Mycroft said and I could tell that he too was becoming angry now. They continued to stare at each other with their usual _brotherly_ stare until Mycroft's assistant returned, carrying a tray of tea.

"I think I'll skip the tea, thank you." Sherlock said shortly, moving towards the door.

"Sherlock," Mycroft called sternly, standing up and Sherlock stopped walking, but didn't turn to face his brother. "She risked her cover coming to see you. I tried to discourage her, but she was adamant, as always, to see you. If you return to the Jubilee Gardens you could risk –"

Sherlock ignored him and strode out the door and I saw Mycroft's face give a twitch of pure anger.

"Fool," he hissed quietly.

"Look, I'll try and talk to him," I said, attempting to keep the peace between them.

"There's no point John, he's already made up his mind." Mycroft told me darkly, his small eyes still fixed on the door that Sherlock had left open. "Stubborn, the both of them."

I gave a small, slightly stressed sigh as I quickly made my way past Mycroft's confused looking assistant and out the door after Sherlock, who had not, unsurprisingly, waited for me.

* * *

_**Author's note: Yeah. Did you see what I did there? Haha, I came up with the idea of creating a sister for Sherlock and Mycroft whilst reading the original Conan Doyle story called "The Copper Breeches" and he mentioned that he should never allow a sister of his to accept such a placement. It is funny what small things can trigger such big ideas. **_

_**So I did a bit of research, finding that the idea of Sherlock Holmes having a sister wasn't as original as I had hoped. But in saying that, I have made a lot of changes to her, her name being the most obvious, so if there are any similarities between Enola Holmes and Anthea Holmes it is purely coincidence. Anthea Holmes is what I think Sherlock's younger sister would be like, and as for the name, I chose it mainly because of the scene I have already mentioned in this chapter. It seemed to fit.**_

_**Anthea won't be in every single episode, I suppose she is a bit like Mycroft in that sense, floating in and out of stories as it suits her, but I will be developing her character, and you will get to find out more back story as we go along. **_

_**Not going to lie, I am nervous as to what you guys think of her. Hopefully you'll like her. Please give me feedback, I really need it.**_


	13. Episode 2, Chapter 5

_**Author's note: New chapter, woo hooo! There is nothing that I really need to introduce for this chapter as it is all fairly self-explanatory. If you have any questions, don't hesitate to ask!**_

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The Case of Mistaken Identity, Chapter Five; Another Body

I didn't manage to catch up to Sherlock until I had negotiated my way out of the Houses of Parliament. He was walking along the footpath towards Westminster Bridge with the collar of his coat turned up and his hands in his pockets; clearly his mood hadn't improved with his brother's absence.

"Are you going to explain to me what just happened in there?" I asked him as we walked with a slight edge to my voice.

"Are you suddenly deaf, John?" Sherlock retorted in a displeased manner. "What was it that you didn't understand?"

"You have a sister," I stated.

"Your point John?" he asked dully. "If you get to it we may be able to have a proper conversation."

"You have a sister and you didn't tell me." I told him heatedly, feeling like he had done me wrong. "You know practically everything there is to know about me, and yet it still seems that I know _nothing_ about you!"

"It never came up," Sherlock said indifferently. "I have no idea why you're getting so upset…"

I gave an unamused laugh which brought him to a stop, the hundreds of people surrounding us continuing to jostle around us, all of them too self-absorbed in their own likes to give any notice to our little argument that probably looked rather like a domestic.

"You're incredible." I said flatly.

"I know," Sherlock stated and I shook my head, shoving my clenched fists into my pockets before beginning to walk again away from him.

"I shouldn't be surprised though, should I?" I asked him sarcastically. "I mean, why would you confide in me about the fact that you had a younger sister who was working in Asia, who you were obviously worried about and which might explain why you and Mycroft get along so badly. It's not like it's ever been relevant, has it?"

"Exactly," Sherlock said, but I was happy to hear some uneasiness in his voice now as he walked beside me again.

"And we are going to go straight back to the London Eye, despite the fact that your _sister_ asked you not too?" I assumed and from the corner of my eye I saw him shift uncomfortably.

"Lestrade is going to need help discerning what is relevant if there is something else going on around the Eye," he said eventually as we approached the busy bridge and crossed the road after two red London buses had driven past us.

"You think whatever Anthea is dealing with is unrelated to our case?" I asked, my slight anger at Sherlock subsiding as the conversation turned back to our original investigation.

"Not really, but I can't be one hundred per cent certain yet." He answered with a frown. "But the fact that Anthea didn't want us anywhere near there is suggestive. I think we've stumbled into something big, John."

He fell into a thoughtful silence as we walked across Westminster Bridge, his eyes looking towards the London Eye. I wondered what possibly could have happened, what our victim could have seen to get him killed in such a violent way. There were many possible explanations this day and age; he could have stumbled across a drug deal, or even an assault (which was my bet, considering all the blood at the secondary scene).

"I'm sorry, John." Sherlock said suddenly, his voice very quiet.

"Sorry?" I repeated, looking to him in shock.

"For not telling you about her," He continued without looking to me. "I didn't realise."

"I know you didn't," I said truthfully, wishing that I hadn't gotten so worked up about it. I knew that Sherlock wasn't like most people, in the sense that he didn't look at the world as I did, and the things that mattered to me, didn't overly matter to him, and of course, some things, like talking about his life, didn't come naturally for him. But he could undoubtedly talk about how brilliant and clever he was.

"It just caught me off guard," I continued, seeing that he was becoming very awkward, very quickly. "That poor girl, growing up with you and Mycroft as brothers, I don't think I could have done it."

I saw the slightest smile play on his lips before he said, "Anthea is hardly a _girl_; she'll be twenty-six this year."

I gave a smile at this due to the fact that Sherlock Holmes never remembered birthdays.

He suddenly quickened his pace after looking back out across the Thames, and I quickly followed his lead, though I wasn't sure what caused his energy.

"They've found something on the river bank," he said to me before he began to run through the crowd. I looked briefly over the side of the bridge, and sure enough, I saw a bit further on from the London Eye in front of the Jubilee Gardens a few members of the police force in their high-visibility jackets down on the river bank. I ran after Sherlock, past the people on the bridge and down the steps onto the path that led parallel to the river. After passing some guy dressed up as some kind of alien who was trying to promote the Film and Sound Museum in the building beside us, and fighting my way through the long line of people waiting to have their turn on the London Eye, I Finally caught sight of Greg Lestrade ahead of us, directing his men to set up a perimeter.

"And someone stop people from getting onto the London Eye," he ordered. "The last thing we need is people taking photographs."

"What have you found?" Sherlock asked as we ran to him.

"Another body," Lestrade said quietly as we came to a stop beside him. "I was just about to call you."

We quickly followed Lestrade along the path for a few metres away from the London Eye before we climbed down one of the old, rusted ladders onto the muddy shoreline. Approximately one metre back towards the Eye was a body face down in the mud and all I could tell was that it was a small framed male with jet black hair.

"He was found only ten minutes ago by a local bobby, he must have washed up as the tide's gone out." Lestrade told me as Sherlock moved forward to inspect the body without touching it. "He checked for vital signs –"

"Why is he still laying face first then?" I asked, getting my notepad and pen out to take notes. "Shouldn't the body have been turned over onto its back?"

"He checked for a pulse on the victim's arm," he answered. "I think he assumed that the man was dead when he saw him."

"That kind of assumption can cost lives, Detective Inspector." Sherlock said slowly, examining the victim's arms closely with his small magnifying glass, his knees embedded into the mud.

"I know that, I'm not the one who did it am I?" Lestrade said hotly.

"You've got to be kidding me!" said Sally Donovan, looking down from the footpath above us and leaning over the railing. "Freak's here _before_ forensics, sir?"

"He was here of his own accord, Donovan, just deal with it." Lestrade told her, sounding like a tired parent trying to stop his children from fighting. "It's not my fault his _spider-sense_ is better than yours."

I gave a small laugh at the look that Donovan was now giving Lestrade as Anderson walked past me grumpily and came to a stop beside Sherlock.

"Do you mind getting out of the way so I can take photographs please." He asked dryly.

"Of course not, Anderson!" said Sherlock brightly, standing up and moving back to my side as the disgruntled forensic investigator began to take photos of the new scene.

"So who is he?" I asked Lestrade.

"No idea, I haven't checked his pockets yet, so I've got nothing to go on." He answered.

"I wouldn't say that," Sherlock smiled.

"Impress me then," Lestrade said, making Sherlock's smile widen.

"He is a young Asian man, possibly early-to-mid-twenties. He's well dressed, inferring that he is fairly well-off in life –"

"Well-off?" I said. "They could have been gifts?"

"Possible, but I doubt it." Sherlock said, shaking his head. "Every item of clothing visible has a brand name and rather well-known brand names too, so he is trying to impress someone. His shirt and jeans would be at least one hundred and fifty pounds each and the belt alone would be one hundred and ten. His shoes are fairly new, yet, like our first victim, they have been worn in quite quickly, so he's also done a lot of walking."

"Our victims have been killed for _walking_?" Donovan asked Sherlock sarcastically.

"Don't be stupid, Donovan, walking is merely a coincidence between the two. I think it has something to do with his profession."

"Are you thinking drugs?" I asked him quietly, wondering if we had stumbled into a drug war.

"Drugs are only a small part of it," Sherlock said, making Lestrade frown.

"Hang on, how do you know that drugs are involved at all?" he asked, but Sherlock made no move to answer him. "Sherlock, if you know something that is important to this case –"

"I don't know anything for certain yet, I need to check with someone else." Sherlock said, seemingly distracted as Anderson bent down to do his first search of the body. "But drugs do seem most likely, do they not?"

As Anderson turned the body over onto his back, I watched Sherlock move towards him with a frown and I wondered if the person he needed to check with was his younger sister.

Sherlock had off course been right; the victim was a young Asian man, most likely in his early twenties. I moved forward in order to get a better look as Sherlock and Anderson jostled with each other to get the better position.

"Grow up, you two." Lestrade said slowly, joining me and Anderson looked up to him with an insulted look on his face, which allowed Sherlock to get the better position closer to the body.

"What do you think Dr. Watson?" he added to me.

"Blunt force trauma to the face and head," I observed slowly. "There looks like there's some discolouration around the neck –"

"Strangulation?" asked Anderson seriously.

"Hard to tell," I admitted. "There is a lot of distortion because he's been in the water."

"How long?" asked Lestrade.

"At a guess, possibly twenty-four hours."

"We do have our own medical examiner, you know!" Donovan called, still looking down to us.

"Yes, but unlike John, he's not here yet." Lestrade said back. "Anything else to add?"

Without touching the poor man's body, I looked down to his hands.

"Defensive wounds on the back of his hands," I said. "But that's about it for now; you'll get a better indication from the autopsy after he's been cleaned up a bit."

"Sherlock?" he pressed, looking from me to him.

"John has covered the more important facts and the rest will reveal themselves to you at the autopsy. The water has destroyed most of the data. I think John's estimate of the victim being in the water for twenty-four hours to be a slight overshot, but that would be his training, not an error. I would have said a little over twelve hours, but we shall see."

I watched as Anderson pulled out a sopping wet wallet from the victim's pants before Sherlock saw it and snatched it out of his hands.

"Twenty quid," he murmured, going through the wallet. "Thomas Andrews," he added, pulling out the man's driver's licence before throwing the leather wallet back to Anderson and stood back up, looking calmly to Lestrade. "This is what made your first victim stop, Lestrade. He saw whatever happened to this man, he was a witness to the crime."

He pulled up his coat collar and began walking enigmatically back towards the ladder.

"Is that it?" Lestrade asked, looking to me confused and I could only shrug in answer.

"Until he's in the morgue, yes." answered Sherlock.

I shot Lestrade and apologetic glance before jogging through the mud after Sherlock and once we stood back up on the firm footpath we walked side-by-side. I glanced to him a few times, seeing a hard expression on his face. He knew a lot more than he was letting on and I wished that he would share his thoughts with me for once. I had just opened my mouth to ask him, when I noticed a familiar face watching us from in amongst the crowd behind the police tape; it was the young man who had been with Anthea earlier that afternoon.

"Sherlock –"

"I know, John, try to ignore him." Sherlock told me quietly as we both ducked under the police tape.

"Why is he looking at us?" I wondered quietly. "Surely he doesn't want to talk to us."

"Oh, I am quite sure he does, but he can't. They have both taken too much of a risk already." He said, even quieter than before. "I am actually surprised in his actions at all; he should be completely ignoring us. He is rather letting the side down…"

I could tell that Sherlock was disturbed slightly, perhaps even a little concerned about Anthea's partner's actions and I couldn't help but to feel the same way as we walked across the square to hail a cab back to Baker Street.

5


	14. Episode 2, Chapter 6

_**Author's note: Here it is, the next chapter. Enjoy it, guys!**_

* * *

The Case of Mistaken Identity, Chapter Six; The Morgue

It wasn't until seven o'clock that night that we were called to the morgue at St Bart's hospital by Lestrade, meaning we didn't get there until half-seven and all I could say was that I was thankful to be out of the house. Sherlock had been in an unsavoury mood all afternoon, pacing around the sitting room, reading for short bursts and playing his violin in his own, cringe-worthy way. No, a trip to the morgue was just what the doctor ordered for Sherlock Holmes.

We walked into the morgue to find Lestrade and Molly Hooper standing in between two covered up bodies on the slabs either side of them.

"Ah, there you are," Lestrade said, looking over to us. "I thought that you might want to have a look at our two victims from earlier today."

Sherlock strode across the pristine silver and white room, ignoring the smile from Molly and pulling the white sheet dramatically off the first body.

"Why have they been brought here, shouldn't they be at Scotland Yard?" he asked.

"We had to shut down the morgue for repairs," Lestrade explained. "Apparently some birds nested in one of the fume hoods and got stuck in there."

"Evening Molly," I said as I moved closer to the table. "Working late again?"

"Yeah, I can't help myself." Molly told me with a smile, her eyes occasionally darting across in Sherlock's direction.

"John," Sherlock murmured disapprovingly as he pulled out his magnifying glass.

I shook my head and looked to the poor dead man's face; it was Rajesh Malik, our first victim.

"Anything else to add, Sherlock?" asked Lestrade quietly, as Sherlock quickly uncovered the second sheet to reveal the second victim, whose face was looking extremely swollen and grotesque.

"No," he said slowly. "I'm sure Molly has given you all the information you need. Was there any trace evidence on either of the bodies?"

"There was what looked like a few hair fibres on both of them, the same colour, and a few unknown fibres, but that was all." Molly explained somewhat nervously, like she always did when Sherlock was near her. "I've sent them over to the Met with Donovan and Anderson, along with blood samples of both victims so you can determine if those blood traces you found at the London Eye are relevant or not."

"Well done, Molly." Sherlock said with a small smile and I was impressed with how he was treating her today.

"Thanks," Molly said, her cheeks going slightly pink.

"What were their causes of deaths?" I asked, curiously.

"The first victim died from blood loss," Molly told me.

"The femoral artery," I assumed and she gave me a nod.

"Victim two had a combination of a bleed in his brain and his lungs, but the internal bleed in his lungs is most likely what had got him; he would have drowned in his own blood before anything else had a chance."

"He was dead before he entered the water then?" Sherlock confirmed.

"Definitely, there was no water in his lungs." Molly answered confidently.

"Good," he murmured.

"In what way is that good?" I asked him with a frown.

"We now know for certain it was no accident and that the two victims are linked; he was beaten." Sherlock said. "Shouldn't there be CCTV footage for both attacks?"

"You would think so, wouldn't you?" Lestrade answered and I could hear that he was annoyed. "So far we've been unable to locate any footage from the night."

"That is rather suggestive," Sherlock frowned.

"Inside job," I suggested, raising my eyebrows.

"Probably an honest mistake," Lestrade sighed and I exchanged a doubtful glance with Sherlock.

"At least you're hoping so anyway," Sherlock said, looking down to the dead man before him again.

"Yes, I am hoping so, Sherlock!" Lestrade snapped in a strained voice. "The last thing I need is Internal Affairs to get involved, self-righteous gits…"

I noticed Sherlock smirk at this last comment.

"Anyway, I will leave you to whatever it is that you're looking for, but I need to get back to the station to try and follow up what little evidence we've got. I'll call you when I find something."

I watched him walk out, the doors swinging shut behind him, before I moved closer to examine the two young bodies.

"He looks stressed," Molly said quietly, still looking over to the doors.

"Yes, thank you Molly." Sherlock said and Molly fell silent after I shot her an apologetic look.

It was only a few moments later when I heard the doors open behind me again. Expecting it to be Lestrade or one of Molly's workmates, I was surprised when I saw Sherlock look up in annoyance.

"What the hell are you two doing here?" he asked hotly and I quickly turned around to look as an amused voice replied "Manners, Sherly."

I gave a snort of laughter as Mycroft and Anthea Holmes walked into the room. It was the latter who had spoken, and she was looking to Sherlock with an innocent smile on her face. I found it quite amusing that Sherlock had a nickname, especially one like _Sherly_.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock repeated moodily, glaring at his younger sister who was walking slowly over to him, still smiling, and I noticed that Sherlock quickly recovered both bodies with the white sheets.

"And don't call me that," he added quietly with the slightest hint of embarrassment, causing Anthea to grin.

"Uh, what exactly is going on here?" Molly said suddenly, looking at Anthea somewhat suspiciously and with an inward groan, I realised that Molly must have suspected Anthea of possibly being a bit of competition.

"She has come with me, Miss Hooper." Mycroft said eloquently, leaning on his black umbrella. "On an MI5 related matter, strictly need-to-know."

Molly looked from Mycroft, back to Anthea still looking very confused.

"Sherlock, I would like to know more about your case." Anthea said quietly to Sherlock, looking directly at him, but he refused to answer. "Sherlock," she pressed before looking over to me obviously knowing that she wasn't going to get an answer from him.

"Uh, what do you already know?" I asked, receiving a glare from Sherlock.

"Only that a man died a few streets away from the London Eye." Anthea said, watching me closely. "Then you both helped the Met pull another body from the Thames earlier this afternoon."

"A body that has brought you here," Sherlock assumed moodily.

"Possibly," she answered simply. "Is there a connection between the two?"

"We think so, yes." I told her, seeing it was clear that Sherlock still wasn't about to.

"How?" she pressed after exchanging a quick glance with Mycroft.

"Why don't you tell us?" Sherlock snapped.

"Why don't _you_ grow up?" Anthea snapped angrily back before turning to look calmly at Molly. "Miss Hooper, may I take a look?"

"Uh, sure," Molly said uncertainly, obviously still confused with the current situation.

Anthea promptly pull back the white sheet that was covering our first victim, her keen eyes passing slowly over the broken body.

"What do you deduce?" Sherlock asked lightly, his own eyes fixed on her.

She didn't answer straight away, and I watched her closely, curious as to whether or not she too shared both of her brothers talents.

"He's in his mid-twenties," she said quietly. "He was held against his will judging by the finger-marks on his wrists and forearms, but he managed to fight back for a while before he received a blow to the left-hand side of his face which then caused him to fall to the ground. This all infers that the assaulter was right-handed and roughly the same height as the victim."

"How can you tell that?" Molly asked quietly.

"Look at where the bruise is located," she explained as she pointed to the victim's cheek. "If the attacker had have been shorter than the victim, then the bruise would have been lower and most probably under the chin."

"Oh," Molly said, staring at Anthea with her mouth slightly open.

"And how many people assaulted him?" Sherlock asked his eyebrows raised.

"Three people in total, but I think most of the damage was caused by a single, right-handed man at least one hour after the victim was originally attacked." Anthea told him after a slight hesitation.

"Cause of death?" he pressed quickly and she glanced back to the body.

"The incision on his leg?" she asked, not exactly sounding one-hundred per cent certain.

"Good and what about this guy?" Sherlock asked as he dramatically pulled the white sheet off the second victim.

A look of recognition flashed across Anthea's pale face as her eyes met with the young Asian man's face. After moving forward closer towards the slab, she glanced around to Mycroft, who gave a small sigh.

"Who was he?" Sherlock asked.

"Thomas Andrews," Anthea answered at once.

"Who was he to _you_?" Sherlock pressed as he moved to stand close beside her.

Anthea looked down, giving a heavy sigh.

"His real name is Max Stevens," She told him reluctantly. "He belongs to MI5 and he was involved in the case I am currently working on. God, it was his first major case."

I noticed Sherlock's hand briefly move to Anthea's forearm before she looked up to him sadly, and then looked back across to Molly.

"Tell me everything," Anthea said firmly.

"Uh, he died at approximately one-thirty this morning, which was two hours before the first victim that the police found." Molly said nervously as Anthea watched her intently. Before continuing she quickly referred to a folder that had been on the desk behind her. "Judging by his wounds he sustained a severe beating; blunt force trauma to the skull, and face resulting in broken cheekbones, a dislocated jaw and haemorrhaging in the brain, several broken ribs which perforated the left lung, bleeding in the lungs, fractured wrists, fractured lower vertebrae, dislocated right shoulder and a broken hyoid bone, most likely from strangulation."

"Cause of death strangulation or the perforated lung?" Anthea asked after a few shocked moments of silence.

"The perforated lung," Molly said sadly. "The victim couldn't breathe."

Anthea raised her right hand and brushed her brow, the first sign of real distress that she had exhibited since I had met her earlier that day.

"What were her toxicology reports?" she asked with a new hardness to her voice. "Was there anything in his blood?"

"Actually, there was an unknown found in his blood, further tests are being conducted now." Molly started to explain before Anthea strode around the slab and snatched the reports out of Molly's hands in a very Sherlock-like manner.

I raised my eyebrows at this and watched Anthea's intelligent eyes quickly scan over the multiple-page report until her eyes lingered for a few moments before glancing once again to Mycroft, giving him a slight nod.

"I doubt that you will find a match for this substance, Miss Hooper." Anthea said as she looked back to Molly and I could tell that she was unnerved by whatever it was that she had read.

"Why is that?" asked Molly sounding surprised.

"Because it's a new, ever-changing drug. Well, new to Europe at least." Anthea explained, a dark expression forming. "It's a potentially lethal mix of street available drugs and herbal remedies, among other things."

Sherlock looked sharply to his sister.

"It's my job to know such things, Sherlock why else do you think I am working with the _completion_?" Anthea said before Sherlock had a chance to question her.

"Anthea," Mycroft reprimanded disapprovingly.

"It isn't like he couldn't work out that much for himself, Mycroft." Anthea said with a great deal of sass.

"Well, you may as well fill him in on everything else then," Mycroft snapped testily. "It isn't as though you are deep undercover and just being here is risking your own life as well as your partner's."

"It is a risk that needed to be taken, wouldn't you agree?" Anthea asked hotly, and I got the impression that she was used to defending herself against her brothers. "But then again, it seems as though _you_ are able to consult with our brother – to rather cruel extents, I might add – but I am not."

"The situations are completely different," Mycroft said dismissively. "Those cases were never _official_ matters of international security –"

"If Irene Adler and the whole _'Bond Air'_ fiasco weren't matters of international security, I don't know what is!" Anthea scoffed.

I felt my stomach drop uncomfortably at the mention of Irene Adler and I looked across to Sherlock who was looking from Mycroft to Anthea, obviously wondering how his sister knew about _The Woman_ at all.

"I would have thought, sister dear, that you would have taken your current objective a little more seriously, considering all that you have gone through these past three years." Mycroft said quietly and cruelly. "I trust that you can find your own way safely back to your _partner_." He added, before leaving the room.

I looked to Anthea, expecting some form of emotion other than cold fury after her eldest brother's cruel words.

"Sister?" repeated Molly behind me in a shocked tone but I didn't look around to her, I was too busy watching Sherlock, who had moved forward to stand behind Anthea and whispered something very quietly in her left ear that I couldn't make out. I did however, hear Anthea's response.

"I'm sorry, but I can't tell you Sherlock." She whispered with what sounded like fear in her voice.

"I could help you, Anthea." I heard Sherlock press quietly.

Anthea turned to face him with a small smile that I didn't quite think met her eyes before she looked back across to Molly.

"The first victim, you said he died two hours after Stevens?" she asked, all traces of fear in her voice having disappeared.

"Yes," Molly nodded.

"So he died around quarter-past three this morning." Anthea stated. "Presumably he discovered Stevens in a rather uncomfortable situation and they beat him for it, but why? If they didn't want a witness, why do it in a public place to begin with and then why not just kill him? Why did they torture and innocent by passer?"

"Perhaps it has something to do with the presence you and your partner." Sherlock said simply, making Anthea frown. "Maybe the attacker thought that Rajesh Malik was there to spy as well; a secret service operative coming to rescue another secret service operative.

Anthea gave another sigh.

"I hope not," she said eventually. "Thank you Miss Hooper for all of your help; MI5 will be here shortly to retrieve their operative."

"You're going to go back." Sherlock stated, sounding unimpressed.

"Yes," Anthea said calmly, beginning to walk towards the doors.

"Do you know who has done this?" he pressed which caused her to stop walking away.

"I have a fair idea, yes." She said, turning back to face him. "Is he in the centre of my investigation, yes? Dangerous?" she gave a small shrug. "Not overly, but he does know how to use a gun. That detective inspector of yours – he interviewed him this afternoon after you left the scene. All that remains for me to do is to get hold of him before Scotland Yard does."

"Won't be difficult," Sherlock said lightly and they exchanged a slight smile.

"Oh, I would be quite surprised if they don't come looking for him soon too; he's not that bright, and he's probably left his fingerprints on everything." She paused, her smile fading before she bit her lip. "If you do end up going back to the London Eye, just be careful."

Sherlock gave her a single nod before she left the room, leaving Sherlock standing tensely on the spot. I watched him silently for a few moments as he began to pace back-and-forth, and I gathered he was on the verge of working everything out. I guessed that the distraction that came in the form of his sister was inhibiting his normal brainwork and was demanding most of his attention.

"Are you okay?" I asked, knowing all too well what his answer was going to be.

"Of course I am!" he snapped, not disappointing me one bit. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Oh, I don't know," I told him sarcastically. "It's not like your sister is going to be spending the night hunting down a bloke that clearly has anger management issues."

Sherlock stopped pacing and looked to me.

"You think I should go after her and stop her?" he asked with a frown.

"Uh, yes," I said seriously.

"You don't think that Anthea can handle this?" he pressed, sounding just as serious as me.

"Have you actually noticed what this guy has done to these two men, Sherlock?" I asked incredulously and Sherlock remained silent for a moment, seemingly to think it over. I shook my head, knowing it shouldn't have been such a thought-provoking question.

"Sherlock, she is supposed to be your younger sister for God's sake!" I exclaimed.

"She is also undercover, John." Sherlock snapped. "If I go after her I could jeopardise her cover."

"She could get hurt," I protested. "Does that even register in your brilliant, scientific mind?"

"Does the fact that she chose her current profession register in yours?" Sherlock said angrily; obviously I had struck a nerve. "Getting my sister to stop being involved with the secret service and this case would be like getting your sister to stop drinking; it's not going to happen!"

I clenched my jaw shut angrily as Sherlock stormed from the room and I resisted the overwhelming urge to go after him and punch him.

"Thank you, again Molly." I said with a lot of effort to keep my voice calm and level; it wasn't her fault that Sherlock was such an arse. "We'll no doubt see you soon."

"Take care, John." She said to me as I headed after Sherlock, the concern in her voice quite obvious. I think in a way, we both knew that Sherlock would be in an insufferable mood for the rest of the night.


	15. Episode 2, Chapter 7

The Case of Mistaken Identity, Chapter Seven: A Thoughtful Interlude

I woke at seven o'clock the next morning after having a rough night's sleep; Sherlock had started to play a new tune on his violin continuously throughout the night. As I lay in my bed and looked up to the ceiling I couldn't help but worry about Anthea going after a man with whom had caused so much damage to two other men. I kept telling myself that she would know what she was doing, but it didn't seem to be helping. I guessed that I had falling into the trap of believing her alias, but she still seemed so young; too young, in my opinion, to be dealing with things like brutal murders and espionage.

I gave a sigh as I sat up in my bed. I didn't quite know what to make of her, the youngest Holmes sibling, considering I didn't know anything about her at all. I gathered that she was intelligent and she didn't wear her heart on her sleeve, but I think that I found it impossible for her not to be like her brothers, but unlike either of them, I could see that she had experienced something traumatic fairly recently that she seemed to be keen to forget.

And then I wondered what her relationship was like with her brothers; it couldn't have been the best, judging from all the hostility and the arguments that I had witnessed from the day before. Slowly I pulled off my pyjamas and absentmindedly got dressed, thinking that I definitely had noticed something new stir within Sherlock, I just didn't know exactly what it was, a protective side perhaps? The only thing that I was absolutely sure about was that Sherlock didn't approve of Anthea working at MI6 and he blamed Mycroft for it.

After I had dressed I headed downstairs into the sitting room, where Sherlock was still playing his violin in a very beautiful manner. I could hear Mrs Hudson bustling around in our kitchen, and I pondered what the influence behind Sherlock's newest composition was.

"Good morning John," said Mrs Hudson carrying a tray over to the table, where I noticed sat Sherlock's uneaten breakfast.

"Morning, Mrs Hudson," I said warmly, following her to the table. "You didn't have to make us breakfast."

"I know, but someone needs to make sure you two eat properly." She told me happily as I sat down. I watched her as she glanced across to Sherlock with a worried expression on her face, before she looked back to me.

"That Miss Adler hasn't come back, has she? Sherlock is looking very down." She said quietly to me.

"No, she's not," I answered, resisting the urge to say that she would never be coming back, cutting my bacon and taking a bite. "Did you know that he had a sister?"

"Anthea?" she asked quietly with raised eyebrows. "Oh yes, but I've not seen her for – oh I don't know how long now."

"Three years," Sherlock stated suddenly, putting down his violin to make some adjustments to his sheet music.

"Has she come back?" Mrs Hudson asked excitedly.

"Mmm," I nodded, taking another bite and watching Sherlock closely to see if he would finally divulge any information. "_Sherly_ never mentioned her to me." I added and I smiled slightly when Sherlock glared over to me at the mention of his nickname.

"Well, that's a good bit of news at last." She said with a warm smile. "We were concerned about her for a while, weren't we Sherlock? You'd not long moved in and I was just getting to know you both. I remember you were hardly ever here because you went looking for her. Then your older brother told us that she had gone overseas with some friends. When will she be around next, I would love to see her again."

I noticed a dark expression pass over Sherlock's face when Mrs Hudson had mentioned Mycroft.

"Sherlock went looking for her?" I asked quietly, feeling genuinely surprised, and Sherlock looked away while Mrs Hudson gave me a sad little nod.

"It was all so strange, one day she was here and the next – gone. She didn't even say goodbye, did she Sherlock?"

"Yes, thank you Mrs Hudson, I think that will be enough gossiping now." Sherlock said moodily as he went back to playing his violin and his graceful new tune.

Mrs Hudson gave me a _we'll-talk-later_ look before she left the room, while I continued to watch Sherlock play his violin as I ate my breakfast.

"Stop it." Sherlock suddenly said darkly.

"Stop what?" I asked incredulously.

Sherlock looked to me, pulling his violin away from his chin. "You are currently trying to think up a new way to ask me about my sister."

"Can you blame me?" I laughed. "I don't know a thing about her."

"Anthea is my sister that is all." Sherlock told me seriously. "You have a sister who isn't very interesting, so I don't know why mine apparently is."

"Well, it partly comes down to the fact that _your_ sister had to put up with you and Mycroft as older brothers." I answered him, just as seriously.

"I don't really think now is the best time, John." He told me, placing his violin down on the chair beside him. "At any moment Lestrade could call for us to rush off and solve the case for him."

I wanted to press Sherlock further about Anthea, but I gathered that it was going to have to wait. I knew (to a certain degree) how Sherlock's mind worked, and I knew that he would probably be considering her as an unwanted distraction. But, we had now reached the part in the investigation where Sherlock would reveal to me almost everything that he had put together before the final act. At least, I hoped that was what he was going to do.

"Go on then," I said, sitting back in my chair and folding my arms. "What have you figured out?"

He gave me a crooked, slightly excited smile.

"All in good time, John." He said lightly, making me roll my eyes.

"Do you know who did it?"

"I don't have a name, but I can give you a good description of him."

I raised my eyebrows expectantly. "Oh?"

He smiled, before launching into his speech.

"He will be approximately five-foot, eight-inches, with a strong build, sandy-blond hair, size eleven foot and wears a grey jacket with a hood. He will be a Londoner who seems to fit in well and not stand out too much. He used to be an amateur boxer but has retired due to injury, probably a knee, and therefore walks with a slight limp. He is also right handed, as Anthea was good enough to point out last night." He finished, looking to me rather smugly.

"Alright, I understand how you worked out how tall he was, but how the hell did you come up with the rest of it?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes slightly, looking unimpressed.

"If I tell you how I came to those deductions you will no longer be impressed."

"What and you like when I'm impressed?" I asked him.

"Well, it's definitely an improvement on being told to piss off all the time." He admitted slowly.

"Sherlock, I am one of the few people who still manages to be impressed after you explain yourself. It reminds me that you are still human and not a machine, so just get on with it!" I told him, smiling slightly at the smug expression on his face.

"His hair colour and the determination of the colour of his jacket were rather obvious from the hair and fibres I collected from both bodies when no one was looking." He began to explain to me quickly, now pacing around the room. "Admittedly they were a bit hard to locate on the body from the river, but I knew exactly where to look."

"You took evidence from the bodies?" I asked in a dry tone, wondering why this behaviour shocked me.

"Yes," Sherlock said innocently. "But I left enough there so that even Anderson can get results. I needed to see them for myself so I could get answers."

"That's what you were looking at under your microscope yesterday." I realised suddenly.

"From this I deduced that the person who had killed both victims had blond hair and had been wearing grey clothing – most likely a jacket. I worked out that he had a limp from the shoe marks on the stairs at Rajesh Malik's shop, which was a power connection from the fact that he knew just where to hit both victims for maximum damage – he was an ex-boxer, so he would probably still have the body of a fighter."

"How do you know he can blend in well?"

"Lestrade interviewed him." Sherlock said seriously, stopping to look over to me again. "Anthea said last night that he isn't very bright and leaves his fingerprints at crime scenes. She also said that he knows how to use a gun and Scotland Yard would be looking for him soon. Inference –"

"He's in the system," I finished for him, earning an approving nod from him.

"_But_, Lestrade didn't recognise him and even I'll admit that this man must be very good at blending in if Lestrade didn't put two-and-two together."

"Right," I said, thinking that I had managed to keep up with him so far. "But how does Anthea fit into all of this and why did an MI5 agent get killed?"

"Drugs," Sherlock said instantly. "Anthea admitted last night that it was her job to know about this drug in particular, and you saw Mycroft's reaction that only confirmed her statement."

"What is the drug?" I asked him.

"I don't know, I've never seen anything like it." Sherlock admitted quietly, which didn't make me feel good about his sister's situation. "And without a sample I won't be able to determine what it is either."

"So," I began to recap. "MI5 is investigating a new drug that has hit the streets."

Sherlock nodded before taking over my recap. "MI5 place three operatives on the streets, presumably our second victim Stevens would have been there a while before Anthea was called in and he'd obviously gotten deep. Come on, we need to get back to the square." He added randomly, heading towards the door as I scrambled after him.


	16. Episode 2, Chapter 8

_**Author's note: Okay guys, you are finally going to get some answers now, so woo hoo for that! This chapter will get a little violent towards the end, so if you think that I need to change the rating, please let me know. Also, I change the point of view in this chapter too, and I wasn't too sure how to do it. If you know of a better, more flowing way, please let me know because I don't like how chunky it feels. Anyway, please enjoy and let me know what you think!**_

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The Case of Mistaken Identity, Chapter Eight: The Beginning of the End

I stood between Sherlock Holmes and Greg Lestrade in the middle of the crowded square that was filled with Londoners heading to work. It was currently five past eight in the morning and Lestrade had only just arrived at the same time we had, and he looked as though he had new information.

"You've got matches on the fingerprints you found in the first victim's shop?" Sherlock assumed before Lestrade had the chance to speak.

"Yeah, among other things." answered Lestrade. "We've got a suspect; Pete Alice, thirty three, ex-boxer, he's in the system for a few break-and-enters, minor assault charges, that kind of thing." He explained slowly as he handed me a photograph of the blond-haired suspect.

"You think he's going to be here?" I asked looking back to him from the photograph.

"Apparently this is a regular hang out of his." Lestrade nodded.

I subconsciously looked around the crowd for our violent murderer, but so far there seemed to be no trace of him yet, and yet I thought he could also be in the Jubilee Gardens next to us as well. I glanced to my left toward the fence that blocked off the gardens and gave a slight start as I saw Anthea Holmes and her MI6 partner in what seemed to be a very heated discussion.

"Sherlock," I said quietly, jerking my head in his sister's direction. I watched as he glanced over to them before he looked back to me quickly, giving me a slight nod.

"All right, what's going on?" Lestrade asked suddenly and I looked to find him glaring over to Anthea suspiciously. "Don't think I haven't noticed them Sherlock, they've pretty much been here the whole investigation, so who are they?"

I looked back to Sherlock, wondering how and if he was going to explain who Anthea was.

"All you need to know is that they are on the side of the law, so just ignore them –"

"Oh God, they're bloody Spooks aren't they?" complained Lestrade far too loudly for my liking, and apparently Sherlock agreed with me.

"Shut up!" Sherlock hissed angrily, moving forward to grab Lestrade's arms with urgency as the people surrounding us turned to look at us suspiciously, as did Anthea and her partner.

"Sorry," Lestrade whispered apologetically, watching Sherlock closely as he let go of the DI and took a few steps backwards. "Are they connected to this?"

Sherlock didn't answer; he just frowned at Lestrade, who looked away shaking his head in frustration and impatience.

"Look," I said calmly attempting to keep the peace as I noticed Anthea walk away towards the buildings across the square in front of me, leaving her disgruntled looking partner sitting on one of the seats to my left. "Why don't we go through what we know, Sherlock?"

Sherlock, who still looked angrily at Lestrade, nodded.

"Rajesh Malik left his shop at approximately eleven o'clock Sunday night after staying back to prepare for a large stock delivery the following morning." Sherlock started to say, talking very fast. "He began his walk home via the same route he always took despite how late it was and against his wife's wishes for him to catch a cab. Nothing out of the ordinary occurred until he reached this very spot; he noticed four men, two of who were probably were wearing something to conceal their identities, one was our second victim and the last was our main man, Pete Alice, whom I doubt was trying to conceal his identity at all. I do believe he has a reputation for being quite stupid.

"Now, for Rajesh to actually stop, the situation must have looked like a threatening one. Judging from the bruises on the young Japanese man's arms, I would have said that the two men were holding him in place, while Alice _questioned_ him. Rajesh Malik has come along and disturbed their interview, so Alice has turned and pulled a gun on him –"

"How do you know that?" I asked.

"He didn't run," Sherlock said and I nodded acceptingly. "Alice walked up to Rajesh, probably threatening him calmly before he proceeded to beat him until he fell to the ground, bleeding from his broken nose. One of the other men picked him up off the ground and forced him to watch as Alice continued to interrogate the young man, who was actually a MI5 operative working on what I can only gather to be some kind of drugs case. When the young operative failed to give Alice the information he was looking for, Alice beat him to death, and the two unknown men dumped his body in the Thames. Now Alice took Rajesh Malik and forced him to walk, bruised and broken back to his shop, where Alice locked them both in so he could question him too."

"But why Malik?" asked Lestrade with a confused frown. "I don't understand –"

"I think Pete Alice believed that Rajesh Malik was another MI5 operative," Sherlock told Lestrade quietly.

"Which he wasn't," Lestrade assumed.

"He was just in the wrong place, at the wrong time; a true case of mistaken Identity." Sherlock said. "Alice decided that he couldn't get any information out of him and felt that he had seen too much, so he killed Malik too, then left the shop from the window upstairs."

Lestrade gave a deep sigh, a sign that I knew to be stress.

"What a mess." He said in an undertone.

"Slight understatement," Sherlock replied lightly.

"No sign of Alice yet, sir." said Sergeant Sally Donovan as she approached us. "The Armed-Response team are all in place and ready to go if need's be."

"Good job, Donovan." Lestrade said with appreciation in his tried voice. "What I don't understand is why the second victim, the MI5 operative, why did he have the drug in his system? Surely they wouldn't actually take the drug if they were undercover?"

"Maybe it was Alice's way to leave his impression?" I suggested.

"Or maybe it was a threat," Sherlock said quietly, looking around at the faces of the people passing us.

"Maybe," Lestrade agreed, exchanging a quick glance with me. "Right, let's split up and see if we can find Alice before someone else gets hurt."

As Lestrade and Donovan headed back towards the direction of the street, I remained with Sherlock, who was still scrutinising every face in the square. In all honesty, I felt a bit helpless because I couldn't really do much. I could see Lestrade and Donovan stopping people in the square and showing them Alice's photograph, and I noticed around fifteen armed police officers in strategic positions around the square. I even saw Anthea's partner looking around nervously, and with that I wondered where it was that she had gone, and what is was that she had gone to do…

_Anthea Holmes P.O.V._

Anthea Holmes walked away from her angry partner towards Belvedere Road. She had heard the police officer that her brother was with say something about _spooks_, and judging by Sherlock's reaction, it could've only been about her and her partner. She needed to find Pete Alice and fast, now that the police were crawling all over the square and gardens, or else she would lose him to Scotland Yard, or worse, he could do a runner.

She made her way quickly southbound along the street, pulling her jumper closer around her neck. She couldn't wait until this case was over, so she could be herself again, so she could stop pretending to be something she wasn't. Everyone she worked with thought that she was a brilliant operative, but she didn't feel like one. Maybe she could take some long-service leave and try to get the last three years of her life back.

She suddenly scoffed to herself, _like that was ever going to happen_, she thought darkly.

Blending in the crowd of commuters who were all making their way to work, Anthea crossed the street, briefly catching a glimpse of Big Ben to her right. She walked a couple hundred metres before turning off the main road and slipping into a back alley, where she quickly pulled her beret down to cover the top of her face from the CCTV cameras.

Eventually, about twenty minutes after leaving the square, she came to a door that she knew belonged to Pete Alice. She knelt down to get a look at the lock, and giving a frown, she knew that she wouldn't be able to pick it quick enough; she needed a quick entry into the premises to avoid being seen by any of Alice's clientele, or Pete Alice himself.

She stood back up and looked around for another way into the ground floor flat. There was no fire escape, but what she did find suited her even better; further along the wall was a small, long, open window that looked like it led into a bathroom. She gave a small smile as her intelligent eyes fell onto two metal bins that had been left directly under the window, thinking that some people left themselves wide open to being broken into.

After quickly glancing around, Holmes climbed silently onto the bins and pulled the window open as wide as it would go, thinking that she was lucky to have been practically living on a diet of rice for the past three years, otherwise she wouldn't have been able to fit through. She swung her left leg up and pulled herself through the window, praying that no one was in the flat.

Holmes dropped quietly into a bathtub, her soles of her converses squeaking slightly. She remained still for a few moments, training her ears to try and hear if there was any movement. When she was satisfied that there was no other noise, she stepped out of the bathtub and surveyed the bathroom which was filthy.

Slowly and being very careful where she stepped, well aware that drug dealers houses were often booby-trapped, she opened the bathroom door and stepped out into a dark hallway. To her left were two closed doors and to her right was what she thought to be the kitchen and sitting room. Walking silently past the front door, she emerged in the sitting room and adjoining kitchen. There was rubbish covering nearly every inch of the floor, food packages, papers and even little plastic slips that Holmes would have bet anything had once contained drugs. Glancing to a small coffee table in the middle of the room, she noticed a pile of used needles.

She moved back down the corridor and paused before the two doors at the end, listening for any movement from within. In the first room there was nothing but a bed and more rubbish, so she quickly moved to the final room and opened the door hesitantly. The room was in complete darkness, so she quickly retrieved a small torch from her pocket and found the light switch, and gasped with the sight that met her wide eyes.

The wall opposite Anthea Holmes was covered, top to bottom, with pictures of her, her partner and Max Stevens, the MI5 operative who had been killed. Some of the photographs were as recent as the day before, when she had been to her oldest brother's offices in the Houses of Parliament. But there weren't just photos; there was information – _personal_ information about them and their case.

Feeling her heart start to pound within her chest, Holmes quickly retrieved her phone, dialled a familiar number and held it to her ear.

"_Hello?_" said a voice at the other end of the phone line.

"Ben, you need to get everyone out of the square –"

"_Anthea, what the hell are you doing? Where are you?_" hissed Benjamin Hardgraves, and she could hear the worry and concern in his voice.

"Get my brother and his friend out of there Ben –"

"I don't think so, girly." Said a sudden, thickset voice behind her and Anthea froze in fear momentarily before her brain began to function. She quickly ducked as a fist flew past her head.

Dropping her phone, Anthea spun around to see one of Alice's burley thugs growl angrily before attempting to take another swing at her. She quickly grabbed his hand with both of her hers and applied pressure to one of his pressure points before moving her right hand up to the man's neck to do the same thing again. The man gave a cry and dropped to his knees, Anthea using this to her advantage by kneeing him in the face. She needed to get out.

As the tall man fell to the floor, Anthea felt something collide with the back of her head, sheer pain temporarily blinding her. With her head spinning, she stumbled forwards, her hand meeting the wall in an attempt to keep herself standing, but seconds later, she felt another blow to the side of her head and she fell groggily to the floor with a thud.

"Hold her in place so she doesn't escape," said one of the, the one who had tried to hit her first.

She struggled to remain conscious as she felt a strong pair of hands lift her to her feet. _Of course there were two men_, she thought furiously to herself, wondering how she could have been so stupid. She opened her eyes defiantly, looking directly at the bald man she had kneed in the face, please to find that he had a broken nose that was bleeding profusely.

"You should get that checked," she said calmly and the man snarled before he clenched his left fist and punched the side of her face while the second man held her in place.

Anthea groaned and spit the blood in her mouth out onto the floor.

"Did you honestly think we wouldn't notice you spooks hanging around all the time?" the man asked with his think Londoner accent. "Did you think that we wouldn't work out what you were doing? We ain't stupid, you know, we suspected you before we got the special delivery of photos."

"Who… who gave you all of that?" Anthea managed to ask.

"All that?" the man asked sarcastically. "That was all a gift, a present."

"A present from whom?" asked Anthea angrily, making both men laugh.

"I don't think you are really in a position to be asking questions, Miss Holmes, do you?" the man laughed, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

"I doubt I'll be getting out of this one alive, so just humour me." Anthea said weakly.

"That's true," the man shrugged. "It was a present from Jim Moriarty; he thought it would come in handy."

"Moriarty?" she repeated, before cursing under her breath, starting to really panic now. She had to think of a way to get out, and she had an idea that might just work if she'd observed the situation correctly that is.

"So your boss, the stupid one –"

SMACK!

Anthea groaned in pain, looking down as the side of her face stung from the man's fist and her vision blurred, but her heart begun to beat faster with adrenalin once she realised that her plan would indeed work. She allowed the man to punch her one last time in her stomach, but as he swung his left hand for another shot at her, she lifted her legs up off the floor, causing the thug holding her he lean forward to steady himself. The bleeding man's fist collided with his face and he let Anthea go due to the sudden pain.

After hitting the ground herself, Anthea quickly pulled the bleeding man's leg out from under him causing him to fall forwards with a _crash_. She then quickly twisted his leg, dislocating it, before picking up a broken chair leg (which she assumed had been used on her before) to hit the second man across the face with it. He fell unconscious back onto the ground, and the man with the broken nose attempted to get back up, but she quickly grabbed his head and slammed it into the ground beneath him.

Gasping for breath, Anthea took a few steps backwards, looking at the now unconscious men, her heart pounding in her ears and blood falling down the side of her face and down onto the floor. It took several long moments for her to regain herself and that her thoughts enough to remember that she needed to get out of that flat.

She took a series of deep breaths, covering her face in her bloodied hands, unaware that she was crying. The true gravity of what the situation she was in still hadn't sunk in. She suddenly rushed forwards towards the door, not allowing herself to breakdown, knowing that she needed to warn her partner of the trickery of James Moriarty.


End file.
